


Influence

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bi-romantic John, Bisexual John, Boss/Employee Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, Gray-aromantic Sherlock, Gray-asexual Sherlock, Idiots in Love, John is a Saint, M/M, Personal assistant!John, Sexuality spectrum, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Burn, Tastemaker!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 34,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is one of the most influential men in London. He is sought out by top designers and celebrity clients alike. His word can make or break a business. Although everything is perfect at work he is a bloody mess at home. He eats and sleeps too little and smokes too much. He doesn't have any friends or hobbies. He can't even seem to keep employees. </p><p>John Watson hasn't ever heard of a tastemaker. He's never been a personal assistant. He has NEVER seen the likes of Sherlock Holmes. He does however need this job and has an inkling his Byronic boss needs him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do You Do That Often?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



 

A gorgeous brunette in a wine coloured dress was waiting for John in a booth at his favorite Chinese place. She didn't look up from her mobile, tapping away at it, as he approached so he cleared his throat.

"Mr Watson." she said, gesturing to the seat across from her.

John slid into the booth and played nervously with the right sleeve of his shirt. He was really going out on a limb on this one. Hell, he'd never even heard of a tastemaker before Mike had uttered the word. It came with a cheque, however, and what he needed at the moment was rent money. Badly.

Mike worked in the building, somewhere in finance, and suggested he apply for the job when they'd run into each other in the park. He said the man was peculiar, but he said it with a grin. John bit.

"You're the woman I spoke to on the phone, I take it?" John asked hesitantly.

There was a curt nod and the woman stood, putting the mobile to her ear and saying something in Japanese. She spoke quickly for a few moments before turning back to the table. When she finished her call she sat and smiled at John.

"You're to be Mr Holmes' personal assistant." she said, eyeing him carefully. "You will cater to his every need and desire. You're knowledgeable on the current word processing system?"  
"Yes." John replied, hoping silently that he wouldn't need to type too much as his speed was abysmal.

"And you have a license." she added.

"Yes, it's licensed." John spit nervously.

She cocked an eyebrow and John swallowed hard.

"Driver's." she said.

"Oh, yes. I, um, yes."

She seemed to mull that over for a second before pulling a card from the pocket of her jacket and standing once more.

""You'll start tomorrow. Six on the dot. Here's the address." she said, pointing to the front of the black card. "And John, the rumours are true."

John clutched the card in his hand as he watched her walk out the front door, heels clicking loudly. The rumours. John hadn't heard anything besides what Mike had said about Mr Holmes being peculiar.

He picked up the menu and decided what to eat, all the time reminding himself that he needed the money. Christ, how he needed the money.

_____

"But, Mr Holmes, this building is a smoke-free environment." the small woman whined as John walked through the front doors of the giant office.

Sherlock took a long drag and scribbled something in a notebook before letting the smoke out of his nose slowly and looking up.

"There are countries in the world where you would be hanged for such a statement." he said with a cruel smile.

"Well, I never!" she huffed before stomping away.

"You aren't here to bother me about the smoking too, are you? I have fifteen more brands to go through by the end of the week." Sherlock began. He took a second look and put the cigarette out on his desk. "No, you're different. We have to get rid of that horrendous jumper."

John stood in shock as the tall man in the tight emerald shirt walked to the back of the room and disappeared. This was Mr Holmes. The peculiar Mr Holmes. He was gorgeous.

John began to fidget when the man didn't return right away and was close to going after him when he reappeared with three jumpers on hangers over his arm. John looked on puzzled as the man walked up and held each one out in front of him, muttering to himself and alternately chewing on his lip.

"The navy, I think. It'll bring out the color of your eyes while the camel patches on the elbows lend a warmth and highlight your tan." Sherlock said, quickly tossing the other two aside and taking another step forward.

John's eyes grew wide as the thin man pulled at the edge of his jumper and yanked it from his trousers. He barely had time to set his coffee down before he had to throw up his arms to have the thing removed. Utterly speechless, he watched on in horror as the man tossed his jumper in a small bin and pushed his hand into the sleeve of the navy one. His other hand was inserted, against his will, he might add, and the cashmere jumper was pulled down over his head and shoved into the waist of his trousers.

"Much better." Sherlock said as he fussed with John's hair a bit.

John, finally getting ahold of himself, spoke quickly. "Do you do that often?"

"Do what?" Sherlock asked, going over to the far wall and lighting another cigarette, a hand rolled one this time.

"Undress people against their will in the middle of the day?" John asked.

"Would you rather I did it at night?" Sherlock asked, head tilting to the side and squinting.

"Would I rather...Jesus." John sighed.

"Oh, come now, John. If you hadn't wanted me to you could have stopped me. You're still quite fit from your recent time in the army, I'm sure you can defend yourself well." Sherlock drawled.

"I know I didn't tell that woman I was in the army." John said, amazed at the turn of events and feeling very much like he was on a treadmill.

"No, you didn't. But you didn't need to, it's all in how you hold yourself. We've got business to do." Sherlock replied, reaching into the pocket of his expensive trousers and tossing a set of keys John's way.

"Are we going somewhere?" John asked, still trying desperately to keep up.

"No, John, I just want you to hold my keys for me." Sherlock said, pushing past John into the lobby and rolling his eyes dramatically.

John chuckled tightly and followed the madman.


	2. What Do People Usually Say?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get ready to go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my petrol-headed nonsense comes from Top Gear

 

 

John followed his new boss out the back door of the building and deep beneath it to a keycard only garage, the dark navy greatcoat flowing around the man like a cape. He watched the slim hand that passed over the sensor and tried not to choke. Why in the bloody hell was he holding the keys?

"Mr Holmes." A man in a mechanic's uniform said as he wiped what looked to be grease from his hands. "Taking her out today?"

Sherlock nodded silently and made his way down a well lit corridor with John following close behind. The mechanic looked at John with obvious suspicion but didn't say a word. John knew that the man knew. They both knew. John should not be driving whatever car lay at the end of this ominous labyrinth.

"So, you want me to, erm, that is-" John began, holding the keys up.

"Quite." Sherlock replied, not looking from the screen of his mobile but walking swiftly none the less.

John swallowed and nodded solemnly as they went around another corner and down a set of stairs. It reminded him of a horror movie, going down into the bowels of this building with a man he'd just met. A man who had a sort of feline gaze, a gaze that told you you were meat and he hadn't decided yet if he was hungry.

When they came out of the stairwell Sherlock walked quickly to a gunmetal gray car and leaned on the passenger door. John was pretty sure this wasn't a car you were meant to lean against. He must have been staring because Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed when he looked up.

"You do know how to use a key fob?" he drawled, face slack and uninterested.

John fumbled with the thing and managed to press the right button.

"You want me to, to drive this car." he stated, feeling as though he might be sick from the excitement of it.

"Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock pressed, slipping into the passenger side and pulling the seat belt across his broad chest.

John opened the door and leaned down to look him in the eye. "It looks bloody expensive."

Sherlock chuckled at that and crossed his ankles. John had a second to feel foolish before he spoke.

"This is an AM One-77. It's underlying monocoque was designed out of carbon fiber and was built in conjunction with composite specialists Multimatic of Canada. Every single metal piece is milled from billet. Aston said that no journalist would ever drive one. This isn't an expensive car, this is a muse on wheels. Now get in and start her up, we're going shopping." Sherlock purred.

John, whose mouth was dry and hands were decidedly not, looked the dash over briefly before slipping the...key, thing, into the slot and starting her up. The sound of the starter motor did more for him than his last blow job. If Sherlock had purred earlier then this was a growl. Jesus, it was bloody alive.

"Stop salivating and take her out." Sherlock teased.

John nodded several times before backing out of the space and making his way up the ramp and into the sunlight. The mechanic tipped his hat on their way out and John knew he must have looked white as a ghost.

"We're going downtown to a small clothes merchant I know. Take the thoroughfare and then turn left on Douglas." Sherlock instructed.

John nodded again, not sure if words could form properly with the way he was sucking his tongue to keep from moaning. Petrol-head. His new, obsessive, bizarre, sexy as sin boss was also a petrol-head. And he, John Watson, was driving a fucking Aston Martin. Fuck him.

The number of heads that turned as they rolled smoothly down the road was not only impressive but unnerving. John didn't exactly like being stared at. He guessed he'd better get used to it.

Mr Holmes was tapping away at his mobile in the seat next to him and not even pretending to keep an eye on the road. John thought he would actually feel better if the man was scrutinizing his driving ability. At least then he'd know if he was about to lose his job.

"Stop worrying. I can here it over the hum of the engine." the tall man said as he pushed a stray curl from his forehead.

"How am I supposed to not worry? This car costs-" John began.  
"More than the sum of your life and what we could fetch for your organs on the black market? Do relax, John, it's just a car." Sherlock said, seemingly pleased that John was flustered even though he professed not to be.

"Is this some sort of test? See if you can make the new guy piss himself?" John asked, biting his lip.

"If I wanted to do that I would have had you take the mono. Jeremy Clarkson pissed himself in it. It isn't necessarily street legal yet, though, and taking something out that doesn't have a windscreen would be idiotic in this kind of weather. Think before you speak John, really." Sherlock replied with a soft grin.  
John laughed and settled into his seat a bit more.

"I've amused you." Sherlock said, turning to face John and staring him down with those pale eyes.

"You have." John replied, shaking his head and trying not to blush.

He could feel the gaze sweep over him, almost like a touch.

"Why have I amused you?"

If John had been looking at Sherlock and not the road he would have seen slight apprehension in his eyes. Luckily he was driving an Aston Martin for the first time and he wasn't attentive to his new companion's concern.

"You're amusing." John said with a small shrug.

"That's not what people usually say." Sherlock shot back, tilting his head.

John smiled playfully, "And what do people usually say?"

"I quit." Sherlock replied honestly.

There was a second where they were both quiet that Sherlock was worried he'd said something wrong. The surprisingly high-pitched giggle that spilled forth from John's lips eased him so much that his low chuckle joined it. He hadn't laughed in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mono in the story is the BAC mono.  
> The car they are driving is the Aston Martin One-77 in gunmetal gray with black interior. 
> 
> Feast yo motherfuckin eyes:
> 
> http://youtu.be/n_gfHpqzZGY
> 
> http://youtu.be/PU5yskq9XyY


	3. Probably, Really, Perfectly Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that would be telling.

Twenty minutes later they were in the cramped back room of a busy antique shop going through layer after layer of fabric. John had his arms stacked with bits of silk and an elephant shaped desk lamp as Sherlock spoke in Farsi to an old man with a cane. John watched the man sympathetically, remembering what it had been like the first six months out of the army when his psychosomatic limp was at its worst. 

The man said something with an angry nod and walked away. John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock went back to searching through the fabric. 

"I get how you knew my name, Mr Holmes, and how you apparently decided I wouldn't be bothered by your tossing my favorite jumper in the bin, and hell, even my army background, but why did you trust me with the car?" John asked. 

"Sherlock." the tall man replied, squinting at a piece of blood red silk. 

"Okay, Sherlock, same question." John said with a soft smile. 

"You've never been a personal assistant." Sherlock said as he placed the new material in John's arms and picked up another. 

"No, no, I haven't." John replied, apprehension bleeding into his words. 

"You're doing a terrible job." Sherlock said as he stood up straight and turned to look John in the eye. 

John sputtered, a flush making its way up his neck. "I-I apologise, sir, I-" he stammered. 

Sherlock let a gentle smile tug at the corners of his lips. "It wasn't an insult." 

"I'm sorry, I'm confused." John said, his eyebrows giving it away without a word. Redundant. 

"I'm used to idiots, 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir'. You, however, can't seem to keep your thoughts to yourself. Highly unprofessional." Sherlock said with a sniff, turning back to the pile of material and adding softly, "I like it." 

John choked out a laugh. 

_____

Over an hour later, with some of the material bought shoved into the impossibly small back of the car and the rest sitting on Sherlock's lap in the passenger seat, the two men made their way back to the office. Sherlock was once again glued to his mobile as John tried not to say anything unprofessional. Sure, he'd said he liked it, but John really needed this job. 

"And now you're quiet. I'm disappointed." Sherlock said at last. "At least tell me what you're thinking." 

"How often do your personal assistants quit?" John asked, saying what had been on his mind the whole morning. 

"Once a week on average...although I did have one stay a whole month. I was out of the country at the time. I'm a horrible boss but you're a horrible personal assistant. I think we'll get along just fine." Sherlock said with that same disarming smile. 

"I don't know about being a horrible boss but you're shite at compliments." John replied. 

"Stop up here and grab me a coffee to go." Sherlock said, eyes back on his mobile. 

John pulled to the kerb and Sherlock passed over his bank card. 

"You'll want a coffee of your own as you left yours on my desk and probably a pastry of some sort." Sherlock added. 

"Do you want a pastry as well?" John asked, taking the card and unbuckling his seat belt. 

"If I wanted a pastry I would have said so, John, do keep up." Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

John smiled and got out of the car. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously as he walked into the cafe. He was starting to wonder if the man was a plant. He was a doctor, and a decent one, Sherlock was sure, and a solider. What would he be doing taking a job so beneath him? Anthea was the one who interviewed him. Was it possible that Mycroft blackmailed him into taking the job? Yes. Probable? Also a yes. Best keep a level head. 

"I said, are you alright?" John asked for the third time. 

Sherlock looked up and blinked a few times, reacquainting himself with reality. He straightened his collar and sat up. Must have been gone for a few minutes. 

"Would you like to examine me, doctor?" Sherlock asked, showing his cards a bit soon for even his liking. 

John snorted and got in, passing the tray over and starting up the car. Sherlock took the cup nearest him and opened it to add in three sugars and two creamers. 

"So what are we doing for the rest of the day?" John asked, pulling smoothly into traffic and heading towards the office. 

"I need to test the material samples; flammability, how much the colors bleed, whether they're durable and up to what point. You can tell my brother I'm using all precautionary measures." Sherlock said, tipping his head back and wincing as the hot coffee burned his tongue. 

"Your brother?" John asked, honestly perplexed. 

"Yes, I'm sure you've met. You are working for him, after all." 

Sherlock's face remained slack, the perfect mask of indifference, but his right hand tapped an uneven rhythm on his thigh. 

"No, I don't believe we've met." John replied. 

Just what one of Mycroft's spies would say, of course. Sherlock eyed him carefully but saw no sign he was being disingenuous. He was good, then. Very good. Probably MI-5.

_____

When they got from the car Sherlock took John's half empty coffee cup and piled the man's arms high with fabric. He left the lamp, a present for his housekeeper, and tossed the pastry in his pocket, wrapped in foil. 

John followed him out of the garage and back into the minimalist lobby of the massive building. He kept his mouth shut the whole way up in the elevator and even down the corridor. When he did speak Sherlock watched him with the same strange look he'd had in the car. 

"Where shall I put these?" he asked. 

Sherlock nodded towards his desk and walked around the corner to the small kitchen. When John made to follow him he stopped him in his tracks. 

"I need you to sort those by color. I'll heat your coffee for you." he said. 

John looked puzzled, the coffee couldn't have cooled already, but went back to the stack of silk. Sherlock nodded and walked the rest of the way and turned the microwave on with nothing in it. He took out a vial of white powder and put a pinch in the doctor's drink, stirring it thoroughly and smiling to himself. This ought to teach Mycroft. 

When the microwave beeped he opened and closed its door and returned to his desk with the coffee. John took it cheerily and sipped. Sherlock watched him for any sign that he could taste the probably, really, perfectly safe compound. When nothing happened Sherlock handed him his pastry and lugged the now sorted material samples with him to the back room. 

"Do you want me to-" John began. 

"No, no." Sherlock said with a tight smile. "Enjoy your breakfast and coffee."


	4. Not Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The compound takes effect.

John tried to ignore the smell of burning clothing, reassuring himself that Sherlock was simply doing an experiment, and sat on the plush sofa to have his croissant and coffee. The layers were buttery and the coffee was strong. He had a thought that the creamer might have been a bit off but that faded, as did everything else eventually. 

_____

Sherlock peeked out the doorway for the third time as he held a plastic lighter to a piece of cloth, the metal closest to the flame burning his thumb reassuringly. John's head had stopped lolling to the side and was laid on the back of the sofa. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm. Finally. 

"John!" he shouted, just in case.

The body on the sofa didn't move so he set down his things and walked back into the front room. 

"I need to work on the dosage, obviously. Shouldn't have taken effect this quickly. Maybe it was the lack of food in his stomach...although I don't think a man like him would normally leave the house without toast and an apple." he said to no one in particular. 

He stood in front of the doctor's sleeping form and ran his hands up the front of his jumper. Nothing. Hmm. 

"Are you using something new, Mycroft?" he asked in agitation.   
(There was nothing in his stomach that started to flutter when he picked open the buttons of the jumper and worked his way through the ones on John's checked shirt. Not a damn thing. It didn't seem to amplify when he peeled the shirt back to find soft, warm skin and a small amount of golden chest hair. He absolutely didn't run the fingers of his right hand through said chest hair when he realised there was no wire taped to John's chest and the sound the man DIDN'T make when Sherlock DIDN'T touch him DIDN'T make his belly warm. It DIDN'T . NONE of that happened.

Sherlock was sure none of it happened because that sort of thing didn't happen to him. He had never had the inclination to touch anyone's hair...and now...) 

John squirmed as Sherlock pulled the shirt closed once more and tried to control his breathing as he buttoned it, the starburst scar on the shorter man's shoulder imprinting itself on his mind. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to run his fingers along the edge. 

He shook himself and stood up. 

"It's an interesting scar, that's all. Haven't seen one like it before. Even when Molly let's me look at her specimens they are never as...NOT enticing. That's not the word I was looking for. Fuck. Bloody, buggering fuck. Stupid." Sherlock cursed, leaning down to do up the rest of the buttons and pick up the empty cup and half croissant off the floor. 

John snuffled loudly and rolled onto his side and Sherlock felt another kind of warmth in his belly. 

He knew then that he had to keep John Watson, whether he was Mycroft's spy or not, because John Watson was an enigma. He'd never had such a strong reaction to another human before. It was as if he were allergic to John and he was somehow breathing in a kind of dander the man was putting off. He'd have to study it. 

He rested his hand on top of John's for a moment before rolling his eyes at himself and walking back into his laboratory. 

_____

John's eyes drifted open over an hour later and he took in his surroundings in a foggy haze. His head hurt. He must have nodded off. 

He stood and made his way to the kitchen sink, held his head under it and drank right front the tap. His throat was soothed by the cool water and he breathed deeply before straightening his jumper, well, the jumper, and walking to the door to the back room. 

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly. 

Sherlock popped his head around the corner, goggles making him look like a giant bug, and frowned in John's direction. John took a step back and stifled a laugh. 

"Do your assistants usually call you in lunch and pick it up?" he asked, lunch still a few hours away but feeling utterly useless. 

"If you want something to do you could smoke some cigarettes for me." Sherlock said, disappearing into what looked like an operating theatre from that angle. 

"I respectfully decline." John said once he'd dragged his jaw off the floor. 

"You're no fun." Sherlock pouted, going back to a pipette and mixing a clear liquid with what looked like torn up silk. 

"I'm no fun because I won't smoke?" John asked, grinning like the Cheshire cat and walking closer to perch on a stool. 

"John Watson, I do believe you enjoy it when I insult you." Sherlock replied, pushing his gloves off and taking a step back from the counter. 

"No I don't!" John shot back so quickly they both understood the lie.

Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back to look at John with that piercing gaze. John looked away and a blush touched high on his cheeks. 

"Hold this." Sherlock said, picking up a nearly useless bit of equipment and placing it in John's outstretched hand. 

That shut John up for another twenty minutes and Sherlock was able to get a bit more done before he had to get to his next scheduled smoke break. 

"I'm going to smoke on the balcony now. You can join me if you'd like." he said, pushing his goggles up and off his head and striding into the front office. 

John fumbled with the thing in his hand, he was honestly beginning to wonder why he was asked to hold it, and followed. 

"You're going to smoke outside?" he asked, taking a proffered lighter and holding the flame to the end of the taller man's cigarette. 

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and held it, as well as John's eyes. He turned after ten or so seconds and walked through the sliding glass doors to the rail outside. He let the smoke out slowly and sighed, closing his eyes. 

John walked to stand beside him and look out at the bustling city. He tried not to watch Sherlock's mouth as he drew another time on the stick. He ended up watching out of the corner of his eye. 

"So, how does one become a tastemaker?" he asked once the suspense had been enough. 

"Be a disappointment." Sherlock replied bitterly. 

When John didn't say anything he attempted a clarification. 

"I had no idea what a tastemaker was three years ago. Useless job, if you ask me. I'm meant to be a detective but the Yard won't work with me. Well, not yet, not on the big cases. I dropped out of uni, skipping out on my chemistry degree by two units, and my brother insisted I get a job. When I refused he found a title he thought would fit and stuck it to me."

"So all this, the testing the material and smoking the cigarettes, it's all things you want to do?" John asked. 

"I'm a scientist, John, I only care about information. The popularity of one brand or another doesn't matter to me at all. People look to me for some kind of guidance as to where the quality lies and Mycroft has them pay for my findings." Sherlock said, waiting for John to call him a fraud, a false prophet and one who didn't believe his own scripture. 

"Not any different than any other bit of science, I suppose. It is rather brilliant to have found a way to get paid to do it." John replied, rubbing the nagging tightness from his bad shoulder. 

"Don't do that again." Sherlock said, staring at the city and taking a long drag. 

"Do what?" John asked. 

"Compliment my brother in my presence." Sherlock replied, pulling a small notebook from his pocket and scribbling in unreadable scrawl. 

"I have a sister." John said. "You probably figured that out because of the way I speak. Anyhow, I understand." 

"You really haven't met him, have you?" Sherlock asked, flicking the cigarette so that ash fell to the ground below. 

John saw something other in his eyes. Something other than the haughtiness, other than the genuine boredom. Close to hope. Quite close. 

"No. I haven't. I did meet a pretty woman in stilettos though. Never got her name." John said. 

"But you wanted her number." Sherlock replied. 

"Anyone would have." John said with a scoff. 

He thought he heard something like 'not everyone' but he wasn't sure.


	5. Business

By the third cigarette John and Sherlock were reclining in the patio chairs and laughing about the stupidity of normal people, or, rather, Sherlock was deducing people on the street and John was trying not to giggle. 

"You weren't as cruel when you described me for the first time." John said. "And aren't you going to get nicotine poisoning?" 

Sherlock grinned at him and puffed out an impressive smoke ring before speaking. 

"It's not describing, it's deducing. The science of deduction. You didn't look into this job at all before you put in your resume, did you? Have you even seen my website?" he asked. 

When he saw that John was about to say no he shot from his seat and went to grab his laptop. John watched him scramble, wondering if the man knew how desperate he was to show off. The lean figure returned and dropped the open laptop into outstretched hands and took his seat again. 

"Second tab." He said, leaning back and taking another drag. 

He could feel his whole mind churning, a feeling often only brought on by certain illicit substances, and wondered if he were, in truth, about to become toxic. He'd smoked as many before, hell, more even, in one sitting but he'd never felt this intensely...on. He scrutinized John's form as the man scrolled down the first page and made a humming noise. 

"So this is...people pay to know all this? It's, well, I think you should fire the person doing your website. It's a little dry." John said at last. 

Sherlock's face fell and he grabbed the laptop and walked back into the office. John went after him. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." he tried. 

"I'm not going to dumb down my findings for the likes of the general public, John. I'm a scientist, not an entertainer." Sherlock replied, crushing the end of the cigarette in the ashtray on his desk and slipping on his greatcoat. 

"Are we going somewhere?" John asked nervously, upset at himself for rubbing the genius the wrong way. 

"Business lunch. Let's go." Sherlock replied, sweeping from the room and down the hall as John tried to catch up. 

_____

An hour later John was laughing raucously at a joke the DI had made and stuffing himself with pad thai. He took a long drink of his water and sat back with an easy grin still plastered on his face. 

The two men, before strangers and quite suddenly old pals, had been going on and on about Hull and Southampton and Andy's younger brother Michael and some other bit of useless football trivia for a while. Sherlock watched them carefully, both providing open body language and topics meant to declare their masculinity. If Sherlock weren't so bored with the topics of conversation he would have been jealous with how easily the two got on. 

John's shoulders, even the one he had slept wrong on, were relaxed and an easy smile reached all the way to his eyes. Sherlock wondered how it was possible for someone to suck all the sunlight from a room and stow it in their smile. Sunlight. Bloody prose. He shook the thought and looked back at his empty plate. 

John had been tense on the drive over, aware that he had said something wrong about the website. Sherlock wondered if he would take a look at it...no, no. It was fine how it was. As he said, it wasn't for entertainment. 

He fidgeted in his seat and John passed the serving plate to him and stared pointedly until he shifted some of the noodles onto his plate. He took a small bite and then started picking out all the peanuts. John chuckled at the childish behavior and turned back to his meal. 

"So..." Greg asked. "How long have you two been together, and how come I haven't met you before?" 

John choked a bit and looked at Sherlock in surprise. When the taller man simply went back to playing with his food John cleared his throat and answered the detective inspector. 

"We aren't, that is, well, I'm his personal assistant." he sputtered. 

"Oh, Christ, sorry. It's just, I haven't seen anyone convince Sherlock to eat before and you seemed so...comfortable...nevermind." Greg replied, taking a long sip of his pint and looking away. 

"Now that you've attempted to dig into my nonexistent personal life, Graham, let's get on with business." Sherlock huffed. 

"Business? Jesus, of course. For some strange reason I thought we were just having lunch." Greg replied with a deep sigh. "Out with it, what do you want?" 

Something feral gleamed in Sherlock's eyes and he leaned over the table. 

"The robberies! I have a hunch." he whispered conspiratorially. 

"No! Nope! Not a bloody chance! Your last hunch got me waist deep in the Thames with my superiors breathing down my neck. You can have the cold cases like I promised and nothing more." Greg said, crossing his arms and trying to look in control. 

"But you need me!" Sherlock exclaimed, slamming his fists on the table as John caught the eye of the waiter for the check. 

"I need your brain. What I don't need is your hijinks. You aren't to lay a foot on one of my crime scenes, Sherlock, and you well know it." Greg scolded. 

"There will come a day, mark my words, where you will be begging for my help!" Sherlock hissed. 

Greg sighed deeply and sat back. He nodded solemnly before speaking. 

"I know. I know, alright. Leave it for now. Focus on your own bloody job instead of mine for once." he said, seemingly deflated from the exchange. 

The waiter brought the bill and Sherlock let John pay for it all with his card. Greg gave a slight tip of his head and mumbled 'cheers' before scrawling his number across a paper napkin and passing it to John. 

"You ever need a night out, a pint, give me a call." he said as he turned to leave. 

John took the napkin and stuffed in into his pocket before fitting the leftovers into a small cardboard box and standing from his seat. Sherlock stood at length and the two men walked out into the afternoon sun. 

"Can you believe him? He needs my help but he won't take it! Ridiculous!" Sherlock seethed. 

"Did he really end up soaking?" John asked. 

"He didn't have to follow me in." Sherlock grumbled. 

John shook his head and unlocked the car. Sherlock mumbled to himself for a moment before slipping into the passenger side seat and slamming the door. 

"Oi! Don't slam the door!" John complained. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the leftovers into his hands. 

"Are we heading back to the office?" John asked, buckling himself in and turning the car on. 

"Yes. I have some more experiments to do before we can call it a day." Sherlock replied, pulling out his mobile and trying to ignore everything around him. 

He was feeling off. He hated the way the conversation, if you could call it that, with Lestrade had gone. The truth was that he'd thought John might be impressed if he got to see him deduce more than a stranger on the street. Why that had been he didn't know, the idea of impressing someone being fairly new. 

Sherlock had tried to impress three, and now four, people in his entire life. The first was his mother, an easy thing to manage with someone who loved you for no real reason and didn't seem unnerved by the idea. The second was his brother, which worked to a point, that point being his puberty which stripped him of all things cute and left him pointy and obnoxious. The third was Mycroft's best friend, a boy named Victor Trevor who he found interesting for some reason or another, now long forgotten. Victor was nice enough, but Sherlock was young and Victor had better things to do than play pirates with his best friend's teenage brother. 

John Watson was the fourth. Although he was struggling to impress John he was getting the idea that the man might be a bit like his mother, the one person who accepted him wholly and knew better than to let him get away with anything. He didn't know how to feel about that. 

"You drift off like this a lot, don't you? If it were a medical condition I would have been warned so I'm thinking it's just that huge brain of yours. We're here, incendentally. If you want to go up. Or we could just sit. Here. In the car." John rambled, not sure his boss was hearing a single word he said. 

When there was no response he took off his seat belt and faced Sherlock. 

"You could tell me your hunch about the burglaries. I'm sure it's a good one. Maybe we could send in an anonymous tip. Although I'm sure you thought of that. On the other hand, your anonymous tip would probably start 'dear idiots at the Met' and they'd know it was you." John said with a snort. 

Sherlock turned suddenly and looked John directly in the eye. 

"That may be your first intelligent thought all day, John." he said, movement and voice giving John a start. 

"Thanks, I think." John replied with a wrinkled forehead. 

Sherlock followed John's tongue as it slipped from between his lips to wet his bottom one with his eyes. It left the skin there shining. 

"So, should we head in?" John asked, not really comfortable with the way he was being scrutinized. 

Sherlock made an approving noise and slipped gracefully from the car. John shook his head and followed him back out of the garage. They made it up to the office before either man said another word. Their silences were back to comfortable now, though, so that was good. 

John took the leftover box from Sherlock and put it in the fridge, poured some water in the kettle and set it to boil. Sherlock was already rolling his sleeves up and typing away on his laptop by the time the water was ready. 

"Oolong?" John asked, going through the cabinet above the sink. "Or Earl Grey?" 

"Earl Grey." Sherlock replied. "Two sugars." 

John looked through the fridge for milk and took his tea without when he found none. He brought Sherlock his and sat across from his desk in an overstuffed arm chair. 

"It's something to do with the maid service they use." Sherlock said after a few minutes. 

"Sure, sure...wait, what?" John asked, setting down his tea and looking up at the genius. 

"The robberies are connected somehow and I think it's due to the maid service." Sherlock repeated with a huff. 

"What should we do?" John asked, standing and walking to lean against the desk and look over Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I think we should investigate." Sherlock replied.


	6. The Second Hand On The Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take on the case.

John only had time to huff out a half annoyed breath before Sherlock was once again slipping on his greatcoat and walking out the front door. He'd started to wonder how much time they would actually spend in the office. 

He followed the madman down to the car and slipped in with newly practiced ease. He didn't even wait for Sherlock to tell him where they were going before starting the engine. On their way out of the complex the mechanic gave him a small nod and kept sweeping as if to say 'fine, I suppose you aren't that bad'.

Sherlock gave him directions to the first business on the list and John started them on their way. He didn't notice Sherlock staring at him for a long time and when he did Sherlock looked away quickly. 

"Did you bring your gun?" the taller man asked. 

John sputtered. "My-my gun?" 

"Yes, Anthea mentioned that you have a weapon, probably a pistol. I was just wondering if you were carrying it." Sherlock replied as if it was a simple enough question. 

So, his little slip during the interview was noticed. John shook his head and continued to look out the windscreen. 

"You should bring it next time. No idea when we might need it." Sherlock said, looking at his fingernails. 

"Are you usually in need of a firearm?" John asked with exasperation, wondering what he'd got himself into but thrumming with adrenaline none the less. 

"Not usually. But, as I said, you never know." Sherlock replied. 

"This is illegal, isn't it?" John asked as they were pulling up the the jewelry store. 

Sherlock just grinned. 

John put the car into park and followed Sherlock into the building, looking around at the posh clients and the well dressed employees. He wasn't surprised someone wanted to rob the place, it was a literal goldmine. 

"Gentlemen, how may I help you?" an older man in a well tailored suit asked as he approached. 

"We're here to talk about the robbery." Sherlock said quickly. 

The man's face blanched and he ushered them into the back room. John stood next to Sherlock in parade's rest as the man closed the door and sat heavily in the chair behind a large desk.   
"Are you with the police? I already told the officer everything. I don't know what else I can do to help." the man said stiffly. 

"We're looking at it from another angle. How long have you been using Sullivan's cleaning?" Sherlock asked, bypassing the police question and perking the man's interest. 

"Just a few months...you don't think? They came with the highest of recommendations!" the man whispered hoarsely. 

"I'll need a copy of the recommendations and their resume. For the time being I suggest you do your cleaning in house." Sherlock said quickly. 

"Of course. Here, I'll just print them out for you." the man replied, clicking away at his keyboard and bringing the printer to his left to life. 

Sherlock held his hand out for the papers and then turned and walked away without so much as a goodbye. John cleared his throat and shook the man's hand, thanking him and promising to get back to him soon. He found Sherlock going through the resume on the kerb next to the car and unlocked it. 

"You could have said thank you to the man." he said as he slipped in and started the engine. 

"For what? Helping solve the case? He should be thanking me! You really are hung up on societal norms, aren't you?" Sherlock said with bizarre interest. 

"You say that like it's a bad thing. Didn't your mum ever tell you about catching more flies with honey than vinegar?" John asked, looking quizzically at Sherlock. 

"I want nothing to do with flies." Sherlock shot back, pulling his chin and making it multiply comically. 

"No." John said with a fond sigh. "It's about getting more done with courtesy than blatant rudeness." 

"Is it rude to not waste his time? To try to get the case solved as quickly as possible?" Sherlock asked, completely confused. 

"Nevermind." John said with a small laugh. "Where to next?" 

Sherlock nodded and read off an address from the sheet. "We're going to investigate their main reference." 

They rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence and Sherlock only watched John half the time. He wondered if he could convince the man to bring his gun the next time. He really enjoyed firing them. That gave his gut a little twist and he wondered if he was honestly attracted to destruction. 

_____

Six hours later had them filling out paperwork in Lestrade's office with the man seething. They were both trying to hide the grins plastered on their faces and it wasn't helping the scene. 

"We'll get prints off the gun, you know! Civilians can't just take guns from other civilians and shoot them!" Lestrade exclaimed.   
"I wouldn't say he was very civil. What do you think, John?" Sherlock asked, looking up to grin at his cohort. 

"Stop it." John replied with a giggle. 

"Either way, it was a bloody stupid move." Lestrade added. 

"The man was attempting to commit murder. Mine, you might be right to remember. John simply did what any good citizen would." Sherlock added smugly. 

"You two...you two are going to be the bloody death of me." Greg sighed as he rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. "Get out. You've done enough damage for one night. Fill the rest out tomorrow." 

Sherlock tossed his clipboard onto the desk and giggled with John when it slid across it and hit the floor. John handed his directly to Lestrade and followed Sherlock out into the street to catch a cab. 

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked as one pulled up. 

"Starving." John replied with a gentle grin. 

Sherlock gave the driver the address of his favorite Chinese place and they took off. John tried not to look at Sherlock in the back of the cab and Sherlock did the same. When their eyes finally did meet they burst out laughing. 

"That was the most fun I've had in a long time." John said as he stretched his arms. 

"You shot a man in the foot after wrestling his weapon from him and nearly got arrested. That's your idea of fun?" Sherlock teased. 

John shot him a sideways glance and shrugged, liking the way it made Sherlock practically light up. 

"I believe you saved my life tonight, Dr Watson." Sherlock said with a deep sigh. 

"Does that mean you'll buy dinner?" John asked a little smugly. 

"I could be talking into that." Sherlock replied. 

The cab pulled up to the kerb and the driver snapped them from their revelry. "Alright, lovebirds, this is it. Pay up." 

John cleared his throat and handed over his bank card, not worried about the fee as Sherlock's brilliant car was impounded for the night. The driver swiped it and the men piled out into the street and made their way to the brightly lit restaurant. 

A waitress came to seat them and another woman came from the back, yelling in Cantonese and gesticulating. John took a step closer to Sherlock and was about to suggest they leave when Sherlock replied. The woman scowled at him and then broke into a wide grin and wrapped her arms around him. John just looked on in shock as Sherlock chuckled and rolled his eyes. 

The woman showed them to a seat in the back and left them with two menus. John sat across from Sherlock and watched her leave. 

"You know her." He said, still a little surprised by the exchange. 

"Helped prove that a place down the street had stolen her recipe for hot and sour soup. Can't have two restaurants with the best Chinese food, can we?" Sherlock sat back and laid his arms across the booth. 

"Brilliant. You really are a genius." John murmured. 

Sherlock looked at him with a sudden fondness that caught them both off guard. His eyes went from John's down to parted lips and then back up again. John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock smiled softly, something that looked surprisingly good on him. 

"What?" John asked at last. 

Sherlock let his gaze fall to the table for a second and picked up his menu. 

"You should have seen the look on your face when you came around the corner and that bastard had the gun to my cheek." he said. 

"It's not funny. You can't get yourself into situations like that." John replied, still watching Sherlock's face carefully. 

"I obviously can." Sherlock replied, looking up and staring into what John felt was his soul. "Now that I've got you." 

John swallowed audibly and looked away. 

_____

Dinner went the same, glances that grew to be too much and unsaid truths. John ate more than he should have and Sherlock got a bit tipsy on baijiu. When the meal was finally over they called twk cabs and Sherlock told John to be at the office at six the next morning. 

"Don't get into any trouble before then." John said teasingly. "I don't want to be roused at half three to bail you out." 

"I'll attempt to keep my goings on legal until at least four." Sherlock replied with a wink. 

John chuckled and threw his hands up and they went their seperate ways. 

_____

Later that night Sherlock finally stripped and got into bed. He was still feeling a bit of a rush from the chase earlier and found himself surprisingly hard. Well, half hard. That was harder than he'd been in a few months without direct stimulation, though. Thrill of the chase, he supposed. 

He slipped his hand under the duvet and trailed it down his chest. A shiver went through him and he felt his cock filling with blood. The image of a gun came to his mind unbidden and he pushed his hand lower, fondling his bollocks and sighing deeply. Imagery that illicited a sexual response. This was new. Usually he just thought of the feeling of his hand on his prick and went about it with no real direction but climax. 

"Oh!" he whimpered, closing his eyes and imagining the gun in full color. 

One hand wrapped around it, his, finger resting on the trigger. He took his cock in hand and stroked himself slowly. He pictured a second hand curling around the first. This one smaller in comparison and strong. He could almost feel the warmth from that hand, a calloused palm and fingers, and sped up his strokes. 

It never took long to get himself off, as he'd practiced for efficiency, but this time was different. He could feel himself cresting before he'd expected. He ran his thumb across the head and imagined the gun going off. 

That was it. He pulsed in his fist, semen covering his stomach and making the duvet sticky. His heart rate was through the roof and he had to focus to slow his breathing. 

"Oh." he sighed, melting back into the covers and closing his eyes. "Oh." 

_____

When he woke a few hours later the duvet was stuck to his stomach and he peeled it off himself with a grimace. Ejaculation was always such a mess. He had a mind to use a condom the next time, easier cleanup and all. 

The cover on the duvet would have to be changed but he really didn't feel like doing it just then and figured Mrs Hudson wouldn't care too much. She used to work in a hospital after all.

He stumbled to the loo to get a warm, wet flannel and wipe himself down. He felt more tired than he did before he went to sleep earlier and was happy to get back to the bed, turn the duvet over and slip under it. The warmth took him away and he didn't think again that night about the second hand on the gun.


	7. Not Yet Sure

John was in the shower the next morning when his phone pinged. He rinsed the shampoo from his hair and turned off the tap, brushing a towel over his eyes before tying it round his waist. The screen of his mobile remained lit while he dried his hair and walked to the sink. 

He picked it up and swiped the screen, staring at the message a moment before shaking his head. It was an unknown number. The entirety of the message was an address. 221b Baker Street. Signed, SH. 

THINK YOU'VE GOT THE WRONG NUMBER. 

He sent back. He set the phone down again and was halfway through brushing his teeth when there was a reply. 

THEN DO US BOTH A FAVOR AND DON'T THINK. I'M SICK.  
SH

John was about to send another confused message back when a new one came through. 

BRING SOUP. CHICKEN IS SUPPOSED TO HELP ALTHOUGH I DETEST NOODLES IN MINE.  
SH

Sherlock Holmes. Of course. The strange man must have come down with a cold. 

I'LL BE THERE SOON. 

John replied quickly. He finished drying off and put on deodorant before slipping into one of his best shirts and standing pantless in front of his closet. He'd thought the jumper he'd worn to work the previous day was his best. The fact that the most stylish man in London had literally binned it proved otherwise. Now he stood in a checked shirt with his bits hanging out fretting over what to wear. Ridiculous. 

He decided on no jumper and slipped into a pair of boxers and his jeans. He'd wear his shooting jacket all day if it meant he wasn't ridiculed. Socks on next and then shoes and then the door. 

He walked out of his pitiful bedsit and down the street towards a market he knew made soup fresh each day. He'd pick up some as well as a few other things and head to the address he'd been given. He figured it would be some huge building with a fancy elevator and possibly someone to show you in. Well, sort of like the office. 

The lad at the checkout gave him a quick smile and he almost walked into a display returning it. That was him, though, Captain Watson, always on the hunt. 

Soup.  
Vitamin C drops.  
Orange juice.  
Tea. 

When he made his way up to the front of the queue he gave the young man there his best smile and tried not to sound too sure of himself. 

"Morning. Lot of business today?" he purred. 

"Yes, sir. Quite a lot." the lad replied. 

Oh, he liked that. 

"Suppose you'll be working hard all day." John added, looking up through his eyelashes. 

"Mmm. Although I'm off at eight. Would probably need dinner by then." the lad said with a wider smile. 

He handed John the receipt and John scribbled his number on it and passed it back. 

"You should find someone to take you out." he said with a wink.  
"I think I will." the man replied. 

John took his things and left the building whistling. Today, he thought, would be a very good day. 

_____

Thirty minutes later had John standing in the humble entryway to 221b with Sherlock's apparent housekeeper and sticking his fingers in his ears to try to control the horrid sound coming from the flat above. 

"I tried toast with jam. He tipped it onto the floor. He knows I won't be cleaning it up. I'm not his housekeeper." the small woman said. 

Okay, so not housekeeper. 

The woman left him to stand in the hall and he glanced with irresolution at the stairs and picked up the bag. He knew distantly that the sounds coming from above were that of a violin but the racket could hardly be called a song. It brought forth images of cats wretching and speeding cars. He wondered if the player or even the instrument might survive. 

He took the first step and winced at the draw of a bow (a saw?) across strings. With a final decision he took the steps two at a time and threw the front door to the flat open. 

Sherlock let the bow drop to his side immediately and frowned something fearsome. John looked on in amazement at the man's complete dishevelment. His hair, before a glossy mass of perfect curls, had an unkempt sheen to it and stuck out in wild angles. His attire, once bespoke and classic, was now one of a teenager, clothes looking uncleaned and wrongly sized. His shirt hung from his frame, a frame John could see now was well below its fighting weight, and the loose pajama trousers were threadbare. 

"You're late!" Sherlock accused, flopping onto the couch and drawing his knees beneath his chin. 

"I said I'd be here soon." John shot back, walking to what must have been a kitchen below the piles of medical and scientific instruments, and searching the cabinets for a bowl. 

"Did you get soup?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows drawn tight under a greasy fringe. 

"Yes, and you can have some after you shower." John replied, giving up on the bowl and looking for silverware. 

His step to the left had him standing in the piece of toast, jam side up. When Sherlock spoke next John was a bit on edge. 

"I don't want a shower." Sherlock whined. 

"And I'm in the unique position of not giving a flying fuck what you want. Why is there bloody toast on the floor?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and it was the last straw. 

"Is this why everyone quits? Because you have them over to your flat and you treat them like trash?" John seethed. 

Sherlock shrunk back on the couch and John ran a hand across his eyes. 

"I've never had anyone over." Sherlock whispered. 

"You've never-" John stopped when he saw that Sherlock wasn't exaggerating and the cruel smile fell from his lips. "Not even friends?" 

"I don't really DO friends." Sherlock replied, back to his disinterested self. 

"Right." John scoffed. "Noted." 

Sherlock glanced up as John took a seat and peeled the bread from his shoe. The man looked run down. Much more than he had when he'd walked through the door. He supposed that's what he does to people. Runs them down. 

"I'll take a shower. Because I can feel the grime on my skin, not because you asked." he said as he stood and walked by John and towards the loo. 

"The steam'll do you good, Sherlock." John said as he ran a flannel over his heel and it came away jammy. 

Sherlock simply grumbled and walked through the doorway. 

"Sherlock?" John shouted. 

"The steam, yes, I heard you, John." Sherlock said flatly. 

"No. I was...I'm, sorry I yelled." John said, standing and tossing the dirty flannel in the sink. 

Sherlock watched him for a second before carrying on to his shower. John was sorry. He'd never been good with anger. He never hit anyone, mind you, but he could get riled up rather easily. 

John braced himself against the sink and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and centering himself. Be here. Not somewhere else fighting a war or dealing with a raging alcoholic, but here. Breathe. 

Sherlock removed his clothes and turned on the tap, standing in the tub to wait for the water to heat up. No one, not even Mycroft, talked to him like that. He turned on the shower and closed his eyes, sure that when he was clean he'd find John gone. From his kitchen and surely, his life. 

He tried not to feel the strain that caused. It was pointless. It sunk deep in his belly and reminded himself of the time he'd got lost at the park and the hotdog man let him have three hotdogs. That had been a mistake, yes, but a temporary one. This wasn't a mistake he wanted to let go but he didn't know what to do. 

"John!" he shouted, panicking slightly. 

There were footsteps to the door. 

"Yeah?" John asked, sounding tired but no longer angry. 

Now that Sherlock had him at the door he didn't know what to do. What would mummy do? What would Mrs Hudson do? He felt as if he were about to hyperventilate when he realised what he needed to do. 

"Call in some delivery for yourself. My bank card is on the sitting room table." he said. 

There was a brief pause before he heard John move from foot to foot. 

"Okay. Thanks. You sure you don't want anything?" John asked.  
"Positive." Sherlock said, because you can't tell someone you've just met the day before that what you want, what you're realising you've always wanted, was for them to be around. For them not to leave. Just, please, don't leave. 

_____

When Sherlock was thoroughly dried he found a clean shirt and boxer briefs and wrapped himself in his favorite robe, a thicker than usual red thing that he mother had bought for Christmas a few years back. He ran a hand through his curls and went out to the sitting room, passing through a newly cleaned kitchen and finding John tidying up. 

"You cleaned the kitchen." he stated. 

John looked around and did a double take at the length of leg Sherlock was showing. If the taller of the two noticed, he didn't remark. 

"Yeah, um, yes." John said as he picked up a pile of envelopes and held it up. "Do you keep all your late notices in one area?" 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and wrinkled his nose. "They can go anywhere." 

John laughed at that and sat down. 

"That was a joke." he said. "How do you manage to keep the lights on when you don't pay your bills?" 

"If I let it go long enough Mycroft will do it. I can't be bothered to remember what day it is." Sherlock said as he went to his chair to perch and blow his nose loudly. 

"Would you like your soup now? I've also got orange juice and a special tea." John said as he sat back on the couch and rubbed his leg. 

"Are you trying to get me to piss out this cold? I don't think that's how it works, but you are the doctor." Sherlock said in return. 

John smiled and shook his head. "Soup it is." he said as he stood to heat the meal. 

Sherlock watched him move, trying not to admit that he was happy for the continued opportunity. He watched the army man reheat the soup and test the temperature with his finger. He watched him wrap it in a flannel and carry it to him gingerly as it burned his fingers. 

"Here. Start on this." John said. 

"I do know that I'm abrasive." Sherlock said, the nonsequiter making it clear how close their faces were. 

"Yeah, okay." John replied, eyebrows working their way up his forehead. 

"I know why they quit. My behavior is not a mystery to me. I would apologise for my rudeness but I don't want you to be under the impression that I wish to change." Sherlock added. 

John took a step back. "Look, that was a low blow, what I said, I'm sorry about that." 

"So you aren't quitting?" Sherlock asked. 

John laughed heartily. "You'd have to do a lot more to scare me off, I'm afraid." 

Sherlock watched this man, this mystery, laugh at the suggestion that he would leave because of his personality. He was about to say something dismissive about him needing the paycheck when there was a sharp knock at the door. 

John picked up the bank card and ran over to take the Indian food from the delivery man. By the time he got back Sherlock was glad he hadn't made the offhanded remark. He wanted to pretend for a while longer that they were just friends, eating together like normal people do, and nothing more. Why he wanted that he wasn't yet sure.


	8. Tea, Biscuits And Delivery

There was something about seeing John sitting in the chair across from him, going on about some inane thing or another, that made Sherlock feel like he'd always been there. He fit so perfectly, sat as if it wasn't new to him. He had one leg crossed over the other at the knee and his takeout on his lap, fingers messy with food as he smiled and shrugged. Sherlock wasn't sure if he should be listening. 

"And then I went to the store and" John said in the background. 

Because that's what it felt like. Like John's presence was set in stone and whatever small talk he was taking part in wasn't needed. It was just a hum that ran behind what was really going on. 

Hands, moving from takeout box to mouth.   
Lips licked every twenty seconds.   
Shoulders relaxed.   
Body open and welcoming.   
Eyes bright. 

Everything John wanted to tell him was written, no, poured out in front of him. Every last bit of John Watson there for him to see. 

"Sherlock? Hey? Finish your soup and I'll heat the hot water bottle and get you situated on the couch." John said, easy smile making him almost glow. 

And there was the problem. Sherlock was thinking in ways he hadn't, like about how John would probably taste of tea and biscuits and delivery food. About how he was probably quite warm to the touch. About how when he hummed it was like sunlight filled Sherlock's chest and that wasn't possible and was obviously some sort of chemical reaction. 

"Fine. You can be done." John said with a fond smile. 

Sherlock let him take the soup away to the kitchen and thought how wonderful it was to see him walking away without leaving.

The ache in his chest had started up again. 

"Here," John said as he returned, "have this orange juice and I won't bug you until lunch." 

Sherlock took the glass and downed it in one go. He couldn't seem to take his eyes away from John's. 

"Are you alright? I mean, besides the cold. You look a little strange." John said, leaning down to hold his hand against Sherlock's forehead. 

"Does your mouth taste like tea and biscuits and delivery?" Sherlock asked quickly. 

John drew his hand back and scrunched up his nose. "I...I suppose." 

"Good." Sherlock muttered, putting the empty glass down and moving to the couch to do some research on his laptop. 

_____

The day dragged on in mostly silence. John opened every letter Sherlock hadn't and stacked them appropriately as Sherlock tapped away at his laptop. The taller man would ask John questions from time to time, mostly about his past experiences as an employee. It was strange, but wasn't everything with Sherlock? 

Sherlock had the second half of his soup for lunch along with some crackers Mrs Hudson brought up and tea. John kept bringing him beverages and he'd stopped complaining by half one. 

When it got to be around seven and John had spent a whole twelve hours with Sherlock he started checking his watch. He checked it three times before Sherlock said anything. 

"It's getting late." he murmured. 

"Yeah, it is." John agreed. 

"I suppose you can go." Sherlock replied. 

"Okay. Yeah, I've um, got a date, so I should probably go home and shower." John said, slipping back into his shooting jacket and chewing his bottom lip. 

Sherlock looked away quickly and John felt his stomach sink. Why was he feeling weird about telling Sherlock he had a date? Did he think Sherlock might be put off if he found out it was with a man? Not particularly. So what, then, was it that made him feel...guilty? 

"I suppose you'd better run, then." Sherlock said, staring out the window. 

"So...tomorrow?" John asked. 

"Yes. I'll probably still be sick. Might not be too much for you to do around here. You'll end up staying at her flat and either will want to leave early to avoid talking with her over breakfast and have to go home to shave and shower, which will take extra time, or spend the rest of the morning on further sexual endeavors." Sherlock spit. "So maybe you shouldn't come by tomorrow." 

John was shocked into silence. When Sherlock finally turned around to look at him he nodded and cleared his throat. 

"Yeah, I'll probably stay at her's." he choked out. 

Sherlock nodded and John turned towards the door. He stopped after a few steps and Sherlock's chest seemed to twist inside. When after a few seconds he walked the rest of the way and was gone Sherlock felt sick. And not sick like the cold that was now really starting to wreak havoc on his system, but something altogether different. 

John's cab had just made it off Baker Street when he got a text.   
I NEED YOU.   
SH 

He stared at the screen for a second, not sure if what he was feeling was distress or relief, and then told the cabbie to turn around. He gave the man a hefty tip and jogged back up the stairs. Sherlock was curled in on himself on the couch. 

"Is everything okay?" John asked as he approached. 

"I'm not doing as well as I seem to think. I'll require your services for the night. What is the appropriate pay?" Sherlock said, the formal tone of it failing somewhat with his stuffed up nose. 

"I...do you think that you need to go to A&E?" John asked, moving closer still. 

"No. But it could go bad overnight, couldn't it? If you were to leave? I am under your care now, am I not? What's the...the oath thing you take to be a doctor?" Sherlock asked, turning and looking up at John's face with bloodshot eyes. 

"Hippocratic oath." John replied, not quite sure how to tell Sherlock that if he wanted him to stay because he was feeling like shite and didn't want to be alone he could just ask. 

That's not what employees say to their bosses. They don't forgo pay. That would be suspect and, for Christ's sake, he barely knew the man. 

"I'll stay." John said after a moment of debate. "Let me get you another blanket."


	9. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter tonight because I'm barely awake. I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this story. I have big plans for next chapter and hopefully it'll be a few thousand words. It'll also be a chapter based on a song. Can't wait. See you guys tomorrow. 
> 
> Kate

John had wrapped Sherlock like a grumpy burrito and finally got him to sleep, snoring happily, when he got a text. 

I THOUGHT WE WERE DOING DINNER.   
TRAVIS 

He sighed and decided on the truth. Well, half truth. Yes, he was stuck 'at work', but it was more by his own volition than not. He knew it was a combination of his inner caretaker and something else that refused to let him go get a leg over while Sherlock was at home suffering alone. Not exactly suffering, but leaking from the nose and being a right baby about it. 

STUCK AT WORK. MAYBE SOME OTHER TIME? 

He hoped it didn't sound like an excuse. When the answer came in he thought it must not have. 

YEAH, SOME OTHER TIME. KEEP MY NUMBER.   
TRAVIS

John smiled, stuck his mobile back in his pocket and went to clean up from dinner. He heard Sherlock turn over and smiled to himself at the wrinkling of the sleeping man's nose. He'd tried to get him into bed but the move was too much for the sulky man. It seemed not to bother him. Said he slept there all the time. 

Just as he started drying footsteps could be heard on the stairs. He went to open the door preemptively so as not to let Sherlock be woken. When he did it was to Greg's face. 

"Detective Inspector." John said in greeting, joining Greg on the landing. 

"Do you live here too?" Greg asked. 

"No. No, Sherlock is a bit under the weather. I'm spending the night." John replied. 

"It's that bad? Maybe you should take him to emergency." Greg said, peeking around the door to look at the sleeping man. 

"It's not that he's horribly ill...it's just that there's no one for him to talk to and he's not feeling well." John said. 

When Greg gave him a weird look he felt he should qualify it. "He asked me to stay." 

Greg took a step back at that and broke out in a full grin. 

"Sherlock Holmes?" he sputtered. "Sherlock Holmes wanted to be around another human being?" 

John squinted in confusion. "Well, of course. You know how it is when you're sick. You want someone to take care of you." 

Greg snorted and John crossed him arms defensively. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to offend. It's just, Sherlock doesn't take kindly to most people. You must be something different. He's lucky to have you." Greg said. "I was just coming round to tell him the paperwork is settled. And you're off the hook, incidentally. You're a lucky man, John." 

"Good. Yeah, thanks. Well, I'd offer you tea but the place is still quite a mess and I don't want to wake him." John said, relieved about the case but wanting to get back to Sherlock. 

"No. I understand. Keep an eye on him, will you? You're the only one he seems to have taken a shine to." Greg replied, already moving down the stairs. 

John gave him a short wave, went back into the flat and turned most of the lights off. He suddenly realised he didn't have anywhere to sleep if Sherlock took the couch for the whole night. He kicked himself for forgetting to ask and went to shake Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up for a second." he whispered. 

"Mmmhff." Sherlock snorted. 

"Hey. We need to get you to bed so I can have somewhere to sleep." John said softly. 

"Sleep in your bed." Sherlock mumbled. 

"I don't have a bed here." John said, grinning a bit at how uncharacteristically adorable Sherlock was when he was sleepy. 

"Yes. Upstairs. Your bed." Sherlock replied, breathing in a wracking sigh and turning over. 

John stood and looked down at him. The over-the-counter medicine must really have been working. He probably wouldn't get anything more out of the man for the rest of the night. He decided to ask Mrs Hudson if she had a cot or a mat he could lay on the floor. He certainly wasn't going to sleep in Sherlock's bed. 

He went down the stairs and knocked lightly on her door. She opened it right away and the scent of apple cider wafted out. 

"How can I help you, love?" she asked. 

"Sherlock's passed out on the sofa. I was wondering if you had a cot or a mat I could use to sleep on the floor." John replied. 

"Why aren't you sleeping in your bed? Sherlock had me make it up for you. Don't you like it?" she asked, looking as confused as John was. 

"My bed?" he asked. 

"Yes, the second bedroom. The one up the stairs. Did he not tell you he'd made it up for you? Said you might need someplace to hide away on long days and such." Mrs H said happily. 

"He didn't say. Thank you. I'll, um, I'll just be off then." John replied. 

"Good night, John." Mrs H said as he ascended the steps. 

John walked up the second set of stairs to the other bedroom and let the door swing open. The room was sparse, nothing more than a bed, night stand and dresser, but he already liked it. He went to the side of the bed and turned on the lamp. A warm glow lit the small room and he pulled back the sheets. Flannel. 

He walked back to the landing to listen one more time for Sherlock and when he heard nothing he returned to the bed. He unbuttoned his shirt and laid it over the dresser then slipped out of his denims and left them folded next to the bed. He set his alarm on his phone for five and set it on the bedside table. 

The second he was under the covers he was able to relax. He hadn't realised how much he'd done that day, but it had obviously taken a lot out of him. He closed his eyes and was able to fall asleep.


	10. How Easy You Are To Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got this part written and thought that I wouldn't make you guys wait to read it. There will be more to read tonight, but enjoy this little bit. If you are interested in asexuality I suggest you go to asexuality.org where I got the bit about the topic for this chapter. They have some wonderful information and actually helped one of my friends identify and feel better about herself. The song is the one listed and I have honestly listened to it forty or so times in the last week. The whole album, self titled Hozier, is amazing and you need to go buy it if you like the song. 
> 
> Kate.

Sherlock woke at around four and blew his nose for what felt like a half hour. John's jacket was still on the coat rack by the front door so he crept silently up the stairs to look at his sleeping form. The need to do that was a mystery to him, having not wanted to watch someone without their notice for more than deducing.

John lay on his back, covers pushed down to his waist, one arm stretched up to rest a hand under his head. His vest was pulled up on one side and Sherlock found himself staring at the bit of skin that it revealed. John sniffed loudly, causing Sherlock's gaze to move up to his nose and slightly open mouth, but then, for fuck's sake, it drifted back down of its own volition.

Sherlock had never been a very tactile person. He'd never enjoyed being touched by anyone that wasn't his mother. (stop that bloody thought right now, she only hugged him) He consequently never found touching another person to be anything he was interested in. He saw people do it all the time, brushing against each other as they moved, caressing a lover's face. He witnessed more hand holding in his lifetime than he felt necessary. The idea of needing to form that bond, needing to reassure himself that someone he cared about had not left his side, seemed childish. The last time he held someone's hand he'd been told to look both ways before crossing the street.

This all passed through his head as he watched the bit of skin revealed grow and shrink with John's deep breaths. Look both ways. Hold my hand. Keep me safe. Strange.

He turned to leave, telling himself this kind of indulgence wasn't called for, and made his way downstairs. He really wanted a smoke. He'd only had one cigarette the day prior and his skin itched with the need. He grabbed the pack he'd left in his coat and a lighter and looked around for his mobile. Once he'd found it he pulled the headphones from the mounted bison skull and went to sit on the fire escape outside his bedroom window.

He lit the cigarette and took the first long drag, keeping the smoke in his lungs for a while before letting it out slowly through his nose. It was exactly what he needed. He plugged the headphones into his mobile and chose the one song that had been running through his head nonstop the last few days. It Will Come Back by Hozier played.

He closed his eyes and listened until it came to the line he couldn't seem to extricate from his mind.

'You don't understand, you should never know, how easy you are to need'

He started the song over again. And again. And several more times before he grew too cold to stand the bitter wind on the fire escape.

_____

John woke to his alarm and stretched his arms above his head. It slowly came to him where he was and he stood to slip on his jeans and go downstairs to have a shower. Sherlock was on the couch sitting up with the blanket around his shoulders and headphones on. John went and waved his hand until the man took them off.

"I'm going to take a shower. Can I use your deodorant? I came a little unprepared." he asked.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side briefly before nodding and putting the head phones back on. John smiled and made his way to the loo.

Sherlock had a brief thought, an invasive thought, he told himself, the sort that aren't actually from your brain but exist for every human. 'He'll smell like me.' He shook it off and opened his laptop.

He went to Google and typed in asexuality. Best to start there. Asexuality.org was the first result so he clicked it and made his way to the overview page.

' An asexual is someone who does not experience sexual attraction. Unlike celibacy, which people choose, asexuality is an intrinsic part of who we are. Asexuality does not make our lives any worse or any better, we just face a different set of challenges than most sexual people. There is considerable diversity among the asexual community; each asexual person experiences things like relationships, attraction, and arousal somewhat differently. Asexuality is just beginning to be the subject of scientific research.

Relationships  
Asexual people have the same emotional needs as anyone else, and like in the sexual community we vary widely in how we fulfill those needs. Some asexual people are happier on their own, others are happiest with a group of close friends. Other asexual people have a desire to form more intimate romantic relationships, and will date and seek long-term partnerships. Asexual people are just as likely to date sexual people as we are to date each other.

Sexual or nonsexual, all relationships are made up of the same basic stuff. Communication, closeness, fun, humor, excitement and trust all happen just as much in sexual relationships as in nonsexual ones. Unlike sexual people, asexual people are given few expectations about the way that our intimate relationships will work. Figuring out how to flirt, to be intimate, or to be monogamous in nonsexual relationships can be challenging, but free of sexual expectations we can form relationships in ways that are grounded in our individual needs and desires.

Attraction  
Many asexual people experience attraction, but we feel no need to act out that attraction sexually. **_Instead we feel a desire to get to know someone, to get close to them in whatever way works best for us. Asexual people who experience attraction will often be attracted to a particular gender, and will identify as lesbian, gay, bi, or straight._**

Arousal  
For some sexual arousal is a fairly regular occurrence, though it is not associated with a desire to find a sexual partner or partners. Some will occasionally masturbate, but feel no desire for partnered sexuality. Other asexual people experience little or no arousal. Because we don’t care about sex, asexual people generally do not see a lack of sexual arousal as a problem to be corrected, and focus their energy on enjoying other types of arousal and pleasure.

Note: People do not need sexual arousal to be healthy, but in a minority of cases a lack of arousal can be the symptom of a more serious medical condition. If you do not experience sexual arousal or if you suddenly lose interest in sex you should probably check with a doctor just to be safe.

Identity  
Most people on AVEN have been asexual for our entire lives. Just as people will rarely and unexpectedly go from being straight to gay, asexual people will rarely and unexpectedly become sexual or vice versa. Another small minority will think of themselves as asexual for a brief period of time while exploring and questioning their own sexuality.

There is no litmus test to determine if someone is asexual. Asexuality is like any other identity- at its core, it’s just a word that people use to help figure themselves out. If at any point someone finds the word asexual useful to describe themselves, we encourage them to use it for as long as it makes sense to do so.'

It was just as he suspected.


	11. Increased Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the break. Friday I ended up working from ten until nine and I was so tired yesterday that I only managed to watch one match of football, Man U v. Gunners, before I slept the day away. Hope you enjoy the new chapter and I'm planning on writing more tonight. 
> 
> Kate

John came out of the loo in his jeans and vest, hair stuck up and skin still red from the shower. Sherlock watched him move to the kitchen counter and get the kettle. The way his arms looked, the way the muscles moved, was particularly interesting to him. Why, he didn't know. Sherlock longed quite suddenly to touch his shoulder. 

There was a sort of stirring in Sherlock's stomach over it. Like a tickle only different. He figured it must be what people feel like when they want to be close to someone. As it was something he'd never felt before he decided it would be best to note it. He opened a new document and put it down as the first indicator. 

Warmth.   
Stirring.   
Movement of some sort low in stomach.   
Tightness in chest. 

He noted the time and reason for the feelings, partial nudity, if you could call it that, a mild case if anything, and closed the document. 

"Herbal tea with honey. It'll help your throat." John said, passing the mug to Sherlock. 

When their fingers brushed Sherlock felt a jolt of something, something new. 

"You should never know how easy you are to need." he whispered. 

"Hmm?" John asked. 

"I think I could do with some toast." Sherlock replied. 

John nodded and stood to go to the kitchen and Sherlock set the mug down and noted the new feeling in his laptop. 

Increased warmth.   
Jolt of something in lower abdomen. 

_____

 

Sherlock spent the whole morning complaining loudly about being sick and bored. John took it all in stride and when lunch was finished suggested they do something to entertain the genius. 

"How about a board game? Or cards?" he asked as he bussed thier plates and did the washing up. 

He missed the look of excitement on Sherlock's face. One which he hid quickly. 

"I have Cluedo." Sherlock replied, voice a bit raw.

John glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Sherlock's obviously fake look of disinterest. "Perfect." 

Sherlock scrambled to get the game, upending the pile of used tissue he'd accumulated on the sofa, and pulled it from the bookcase. He resettled on the floor by the fireplace and opened the box with a kind of reverence. 

"I'm going to light a fire." John said as Sherlock set up the board. 

Just then a knock came to the door and a tall man in a three piece suit walked in, tapping an umbrella on the floor and grimacing. He glanced around and finally settled on John. 

"How very domestic." he announced. 

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with a huff that turned into a spectacular sneeze. 

"Oh, I was just stopping by to see how you were. A little birdie told me you had a cold. Too bad mummy isn't here to care for you." Mycroft replied. 

John immediately disliked the man. 

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock hissed. 

"Playing Cluedo. I suppose you didn't tell John how belligerent you get when you lose." Mycroft drawled. 

John took a step forward, subconsciously blocking Sherlock from anymore verbal abuse. He stuck his hand out with a frown. 

"Don't believe we've met." he said. 

Mycroft grinned and turned to leave. 

"Do get better, brother dear. I hate seeing you at less than full capacity." he said. 

When the door closed John turned and caught Sherlock rolling his eyes. 

"Your brother's a dick." He said with a small smile. 

Sherlock smiled back. "You've no idea." 

_____

Once John had boxed up the board game and banned them from ever playing it again Sherlock was tired enough to take a nap on the couch. He grumbled as John tucked the blanket around him but was soon snoring softly. 

John took a book from the large collection and sat in the chair he now thought of as his own to read. He thought briefly about how strange it was to feel so comfortable in a place he'd only been in once with a man he barely knew. It felt like going home. Well, not his home. 

He relaxed and read for a while, looking over every now and then to check that Sherlock was still sleeping comfortably. Not that he really needed to. Not that he'd started to see the strange man as his friend. Not at all.


	12. Let's Go Home

John stayed with Sherlock all day for the next three days, only spending the night the one time. He brought over a few things, some books and his laptop, so he could entertain himself while Sherlock kipped on the sofa. 

By the fifth day Sherlock was like a trapped animal, willing to gnaw his own leg off for a chance at freedom. It was about lunch time that he finally broke. 

"I need to get out of this blasted flat! I can't stand it for one more minute!" he shouted, pulling at his hair. 

"Then get dressed. Unless you feel like leaving the house in your pants." John sighed, honestly sick of Sherlock prancing around like clothes didn't matter, dressing gown falling from his shoulders. It was a bit too much to handle. 

"Fine. Get ready. We're going shopping." Sherlock said as he strode purposefully towards his bedroom and slammed the door. 

John rolled his eyes and took his mug to the sink. He got his jacket from the entryway and slipped into it, putting on his gloves as well since it had got more than a bit chilly out. Sherlock rounded the corner at a quick pace and nearly knocked John over. 

"Slow down there, tiger." John said in exasperation. 

Sherlock's heart skipped at that almost-pet-name but he kept moving. 

"No time, John, we have to get to the market before it closes." Sherlock answered, already down the steps and moving to the front door. 

John jogged down after him and smiled when Sherlock took a second to catch his breath, obviously not as healed as he thought. He put a hand on Sherlock's upper back and the man stiffened. He drew it back quickly. 

"Sorry." John muttered, feeling a flush start below the neck of his jumper. 

"No, it's...it's fine. People don't usually..." Sherlock said, trailing off at the end. 

"I'll get us a cab." John said nervously as he went out to the kerb. 

Sherlock wanted to place his hand on the small of John's back. Wanted to slip it below his shirt and feel the soft, warm skin there. Wanted to smell him. Strange. 

He shook it off and walked out to hold his hand above John's. A cab pulled up right away and John looked proud of himself so Sherlock let his hand fall without being seen. He slipped in next to John and gave the cabbie an address. 

"What market closes this early?" John asked. 

"The flower market. We really should have got there early. Don't know what I was thinking." Sherlock replied. 

"Flower market?" John asked with a raised brow. 

"I have to pick up a few rare specimens. Hopefully the ones I'm looking for will be there." Sherlock replied, leaning back against the seat and staring at John. 

After a few moments John got uncomfortable. He licked his lips and looked from Sherlock's eyes to the window over his shoulder. 

"Do I have something on my face?" he joked. 

Sherlock breathed deeply and his eyebrows knit tightly before sighing and looking away. He couldn't understand what was so different about John. 

Sherlock had tried to be attracted to people before. In uni there was a boy named Victor who his contemporaries seemed to think he was involved with. Victor himself had tried to kiss Sherlock. Their friendship disintegrated after that. 

John wasn't the type his family seemed to think he would like. He wasn't posh or brilliant. He wasn't a scientist or a detective. He wasn't difficult. He was just John. Forever forgiving, easygoing, secretly complex, John. 

"This is it." the cabbie said as they pulled up to the kerb. 

Sherlock pressed some bills into the man's hand and got out. John followed him into a back alley filled with vendors. The place was absolutely packed. Sherlock weaved his way through the throng and made his way to a booth near the back. When John caught up to him he was speaking flawless Japanese to a woman trimming plants. 

They seemed to be arguing over the price as the woman shook her head and pulled a pot away from Sherlock. He grew angrier at that and slammed his fist on the table. The woman sneered at him briefly before pressing the plant into his hands and taking another from below the booth and handing it over. Sherlock handed her what looked to be one hundred plus pounds and walked away. 

"Come along, John. We have what we need." he called over his shoulder. 

John followed and hopped into another cab when Sherlock hailed it. He held the plants for Sherlock and scrunched up his nose. 

"What were you fighting over?" he asked. 

"She didn't want to sell me the second flower. Thought I was an undercover cop." Sherlock replied, tapping away at his mobile. 

"An undercover cop?" John asked surprised. 

"Yes, the sale of a few of the flowers is illegal due to import laws. Really petty things, trying to keep supposed invasive species out. The lot that imposed them has no clue about botany, however. Idiots." Sherlock replied. 

John looked at the plants in his hands with wide eyes. 

"They aren't poisonous, John." Sherlock teased. 

John rolled his eyes and looked out the window. 

_____

They made it to the office twenty minutes later and John followed Sherlock into the lab with the flowers. He set them down on the worktop and backed away as Sherlock slipped his coat off and handed it over. 

"You'll want food soon. Order us something. I'll be a while." Sherlock said, gloves appearing from his jacket pocket. 

"Indian or Chinese?" John asked, going to hang the coat by the door. 

Sherlock was already working away and refused to answer. John smiled and went through his mobile for the number of he place they'd ordered from the other day. It was close enough so he put in an order and settled on the sofa. 

He flipped through Sherlock's agenda and made a few calls to let people know that, yes, he was still alive, and no, he wouldn't be cancelling his appointments for the next week. He supposed they all knew he was under the weather due to the daily complaints on Sherlock's website about the uselessness of certain over the counter drugs. 

By the time he was done with that the food had come and he brought his box of chow mein and a fork into the lab to watch Sherlock work. It really was fascinating. He was cutting up leaves and flowers and looking at them under the microscope. 

"Just as I thought." he mumbled, still not acknowledging that John was in the room. 

John continued to eat as Sherlock poured chemicals together and tapped along on his laptop. He brought up several things-a map of London, ingredient lists, some flight plan or another. None of it made any sense to John but then again he didn't know what Sherlock was looking for. 

He had such nimble fingers, long and elegant. Not that John was noticing the fingers of his friend, boss. His boss. Jesus, John, get a grip, Sherlock doesn't do friends. 

When John was finished eating he started the arduous task of typing Sherlock's notes into the main system. He really should have taken a class on typing. He knew how ridiculously slow he typed. 

It took him nearly four hours to get even half of it in, although he blamed a lot of it on Sherlock's chicken scratch and the fact that it was backlogged by at least three months. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and stretched before standing and walking to check on Sherlock. 

"You should really eat at some point." he said, not expecting a response. 

"My hands are busy." Sherlock said flatly. 

"So...what if I put a wonton directly into your mouth?" John asked. 

Sherlock looked over at him suspiciously and John just shrugged. 

"I suppose it would be acceptable." Sherlock replied. 

John smiled and went back to the front room to grab the bag of cheese and crab filled wontons. He opened it and heated a few in the oven under the burner for a minute then brought them to Sherlock. He held one to Sherlock's mouth and the taller man took a bite. Then another. Soon he'd eaten all the wontons and John was hand feeding him bits of chicken. 

"I hope you washed your hands." Sherlock said, between bites. 

John stuck a water chestnut in his mouth to shut him up. 

"I was a bloody doctor, Sherlock. I know a thing or two about proper hygiene." he said. 

"Are a doctor. Just because you're not practicing doesn't mean you aren't a doctor." Sherlock replied. 

John swallowed hard and held another piece of chicken out. Sherlock took it between his lips and sat up. He chewed it while watching John carefully. 

"Why do you do that?" John asked, gesturing towards Sherlock.   
"You'll have to be more specific." Sherlock replied. "I do quite a lot of things." 

John rolled his eyes. "Why do you stare at me?" 

"I was just thinking." Sherlock replied. 

"About what?" John asked. 

The way the skin on your neck would feel against my face.   
What you smell like after a good run.   
Whether you'd let me touch your left wrist.   
What your mouth tastes like right, yes, right now. 

Of course Sherlock said none of this. Instead he looked away and fiddled with a piece of equipment. 

"I think I'll need you to come work at my flat tonight." he said. 

"What's there to do?" John asked. 

"There's...um, well, there's always something, isn't there?" Sherlock replied, flush moving up his neck. 

"You know, if you want to just hang out you can ask." John replied softly. 

"I don't 'hang out'." Sherlock scoffed. 

He looked up guiltily at John, who simply crossed his arms and glared. He sighed deeply and tried again. 

"I seem to find myself enjoying your company. It's easier to think when you're around. Your flat is dreadful and you hate it so I think you should move into the room upstairs. The rent is well within your means and we can commute together." he said quickly. 

John's mouth hung open for a moment before he realised it. He snapped it shut audibly and nodded. 

"Yeah. Um, yeah, okay." he replied. 

Sherlock blinked rapidly for a while before standing and throwing away his gloves. 

"It's settled then. John," he said tentatively, "let's go home." 

John smiled and followed him out of the office.


	13. Presence

Three days later John had not only moved in his physical things but seemed to have moved his entire presence into the flat. There was a different feel to the early morning hours with John reading the newspaper and clearing his throat. Evenings were filled with John sipping tea and playing around on his laptop. The loo smelled like John's things and the front stoop held remnants of his shoe scrapings. Everywhere Sherlock went in the flat he saw John. 

It was... 

Well, it wasn't bad. Sherlock would even go far enough to say it was comforting, feeling John in the room even when he was out. Smelling him on the towels. 

The one thing that drove Sherlock batty was John's insistence that he quit smoking. The conversation started with John insisting he do it outside and ended with John storming off and returning with a box of nicotine patches and a packet of cigarette replacement gum. 

"The patch, John? You can't be serious!" Sherlock shouted. 

John couldn't understand what he was saying as his mouth was stuffed to bursting with cigarettes. John took a moment to enjoy the phallic display before pulling them from his mouth and tossing them in the bin. When Sherlock started to complain he unwrapped the gum and stuck a piece directly into Sherlock's mouth. 

"Chew it and then stick it in your cheek against your gums. Maybe it'll settle you down a bit." he said. 

"Give me a patch too." Sherlock whined. 

"For Christ's sake! Take the box!" John said, tossing the thing in his direction. 

There was a sudden gleam in Sherlock's eyes and John took a step forward. Sherlock grinned and smacked the gum loudly. 

"If I have to bring you to A&E I swear I'll bill you for double time spent." John threatened. 

"Money means nothing to me, John, you know that by now." Sherlock teased openly. 

John squared his shoulders and tried a different tactic. "If you quit smoking I'll get you the body parts you really want from the morgue. I have a friend at Bart's, old army buddy." 

Sherlock's grin fell and he chewed his bottom lip and then sucked it into his mouth. John absolutely didn't think about sucking it for him. 

"Deal." Sherlock said at length, holding his hand out and squinting. 

John took his hand and shook it roughly before going to sit in his chair. Sherlock settled across from him and crossed his arms. 

"I was going to quit anyhow." he said. 

John snorted and picked up his book. "No you weren't." 

Sherlock huffed and pulled out his laptop to partake in their new evening ritual of being together quietly in the sitting room. It was more than Sherlock could have ever hoped for. He got companionship and closeness without all the talking and compromise. He even got to watch John read or type, both things infinitely interesting. 

John was currently at around two hundred words per minute, showing he was still getting into his book, mind probably stuck on Sherlock and his smoking. With the probability of him soon making it up to three hundred Sherlock felt a sort of loss. He wanted the attention, wanted John to be distracted by him. It wasn't fair that he was the only one unable to find balance. 

"If you stop staring at me and let me read for an hour we can watch Top Gear." John said without looking up. 

Sherlock huffed and looked away, catching John's smile just as he did. He liked John's smile. 

_____

That night, while laying in bed, Sherlock found his hand drifting below the elastic waist of his pants. He palmed himself slowly and focused on the blood flowing away from his brain and into his trousers. He hated that about arousal. It always made his mind slow. 

Giving up, something he only afforded himself every so often, he closed his eyes and wrapped a hand around his growing erection. His hips moved of their own accord and he was soon sweating and close to climax. He swore he could smell John's shampoo. Impossible. 

He breathed deeply and smelled it again just as he began to come, hot and thick across his stomach. 

Once he'd cleaned himself up he spent ten minutes trying to figure out where the smell had come from. He had no luck. He finally gave up and slipped on his pajama bottoms and went to the sitting room to find his laptop. 

He opened the page with his data on reactions to John and added in more information. All the indicators were wrong. The feelings he was having seemed to be, by all accounts, wrong. Too strong to be basic friendship. Wanting to smell someone and wondering how they tasted was apparently so far from normal that mentioning it in public was frowned upon. 

He'd asked John what to do if he wanted to taste someone's mouth and John had hushed him loudly in the middle of Tesco and refused to answer him, saying something about that being a personal matter he should discuss with whomever he wanted to taste. Well, not exactly like that. He'd actually freaked out and told Sherlock to keep those thoughts to himself. Close enough. 

The other peculiar thing that had started happening was John's cameos in Sherlock's sex dreams. He'd had two with John in them. He wasn't participating or anything but it was clear that he had some purpose. Now there was the sensory hallucination of the shampoo. Sherlock was sure it was simply that he was spending all his time with John and the man had overwhelmed his mind palace. 

He closed his laptop with a huff and curled into a ball on the sofa to sleep it off. His bed still smelled of John. Improbable but true.


	14. I'd Like That

The next few weeks went by quickly, things settled in both at work and at home and the two men found their rhythm. They moved as a unit now and everyone in the building was saying how peculiar it was that Sherlock wasn't as difficult when John was around. Several suspected that they were sleeping together but people love a scandal, don't they? 

It was coming up on Christmas when Lestrade busted through their front door and stood panting. He really needed to quit smoking if he had trouble running up from his car. 

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked from the sofa. 

John elbowed him in the ribs and turned to smile at the DI. "Hey, Greg, what's going on?" 

"Kidnapping." he said with a frown. 

Sherlock shot to his feet and started putting on his coat, John following and getting his gloves. 

"How long?" Sherlock asked, pushing past the two men and heading down the stairs. 

Greg hesitated and Sherlock knew it was bad. 

"Forty-three. Forty-three hours." he said gravely. 

"Well, let's go! Tell me the specifics on the way!" Sherlock shouted. "And we're taking a cab." 

Greg sighed and followed him to the kerb. A cab pulled up in the timely fashion that came with being Sherlock Holmes and the three men slid into the back seat. Sherlock tried to ignore how the cramped quarters made his thigh press against John's enough to feel his warmth. 

"Little girl. Father came to us because of the ransom. She was taken from a park just south of here. She was on the swing one minute and gone the next." Lestrade explained. 

"Associates, coworkers? Who would want to hurt the father?" Sherlock asked. 

"We were sure it was his brother. Down on his luck and low on cash. He's an addict." Lestrade replied. 

"And why the change of heart?" John asked. 

"The wife came up with an alibi. They were sleeping together." Greg replied with a frown, probably thinking of his own wife's infidelity. 

"And you don't suspect the mother?" Sherlock asked. 

"She's broken over it." Greg replied. 

"I need to talk to her." Sherlock said, typing something on his mobile. "I'll need to speak with all three." 

"I don't know if that's such-" Greg began. 

"You either want my help or you don't. Make up your mind and stop wasting our time." Sherlock hissed. 

"I do. I do, Christ." Greg said, hanging his head and sighing. 

_____

An hour later John stood next to Sherlock in the hallway as they watched the father cry. He was behind a one way mirror so John didn't have to worry about disturbing him anymore. 

"Any ideas?" he asked. 

"Four." Sherlock said quickly, searching his phone for something or other. 

"Care to elaborate?" John prodded. 

"Blackmail, but not for the money. The father is the target." Sherlock replied. "Whatever he has was requested by the kidnapper and he simply lied about the exorbitant fee." 

"You're kidding!" John exclaimed. 

Sherlock looked up and narrowed his eyes. "I don't kid." He said sternly. 

John nodded and took on parade's rest. "What now?" 

"We break into the man's home while everyone investigates his affair with his brother." Sherlock said, looking back at his phone.

"We break-wait! His brother?" John exclaimed. 

"I've just texted Lestrade. He'll be on the trail soon enough and I'm sure he'll want to detain the wife as well. Let's go." Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and took off down the hall. 

John ran after him and was soon on his way to do a little housebreaking. 

_____

Sherlock was shuffling through paperwork with a flashlight in his mouth when John realised he was definitely, positively, irrevocably in love with his boss. It was breathtaking really, seeing him in his element, eyes flitting back and forth and mind running at top speed. He was gorgeous. He was perfect, in his own bizarre way. 

John found himself staring and looked away. It was pointless. Sherlock didn't even want John as his friend let alone his...what, lover? John felt stupid because he wanted even more than that. He couldn't even bring himself to say boyfriend in his own head. 

"Found it!" Sherlock announced, stuffing a paper in his pocket and taking the flashlight in hand. 

John grinned for ear to ear and whispered, "Brilliant." 

Sherlock glanced at him fleetingly. "You know, you do that out loud." he said as he walked towards the window they'd come in through. 

John flushed there in the dark. "Sorry." he replied, feeling guilty.   
"No, it's...fine." Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "Let's get back to the met." 

John followed him out to the street and they caught a cab. The ride was silent for a while before John spoke. It was a kind of nervous silence because John was thinking about how he'd quite shown his cards while Sherlock thought of how no one ever called him brilliant but his parents. 

"So what are you going to do?" John asked. 

"I'll confront the father and he'll break." Sherlock replied as if it was obvious. 

"What about how we got the evidence?" John asked, now feeling a bit queasy about walking into the Metropolitan police with the fruits of their recent labor. 

"No one will ask. They'll ask how I knew and I'll spin a tale they won't understand. Not like they understand the truth most days."

John laughed at that and Sherlock glanced up, sure he was being made fun of. When he saw the humor turn to fondness in John's eyes he looked away quickly. John bit his lip and looked out the window. 

_____

After getting the father to spill the beans and the three hours it took to secure the girl John and Sherlock were finally back in 221b. Sherlock went about making tea while John settled on the couch and stretched. 

"You were, you know. Are." John said at length. 

Sherlock glanced at him as he brought the tea tray over and set it before him. He usually hated it when people said things like that, using lack of information to engage you in conversation. There were a lot of things Sherlock didn't mind as long as John was doing them. 

"Are what?" he asked as he sprawled across what was left of the couch. 

"Brilliant." John said, sighing and picking up his tea. 

Sherlock felt that little bit of heat in his stomach again and buried his toes beneath John's thigh. 

"Where are you going for Christmas?" he asked. 

John frowned and licked his bottom lip. "Probably just staying here." 

"You should come with me. My parents will like you and you can keep me entertained." Sherlock said in what he hoped seemed a bored tone. 

John looked at him with shock and Sherlock tried to back pedal, reading it all wrong. "I'd pay you, of course." 

John's face fell and Sherlock knew it had been the wrong thing to say. 

"Or you could come as my friend." he said without thinking. 

John smiled gently and nodded. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief at saying something right for once. 

"I'd like that," John said, staring into his tea, "very much."


	15. Now

The evening before their trip to visit Sherlock's parents in Bexhill-on-Sea Sherlock and John got into a rather intense fight. 

"I'm quite happy to meet you both." the woman at the boutique Sherlock was set to critique purred, looking John over hungrily. 

Sherlock watched her gaze as it passed over John's body, the doctor himself not seeing as he was picking up a macaroon shaped candle. He felt a burning in his chest and wanted nothing more than to shut the woman up. What followed could have easily been described as a tirade. 

In the end Sherlock had made the woman cry when he told her how he honestly felt about her wares in a rather brusque manner. (Why someone would want Sherlock Holmes' honest opinion without knowing it ahead of time was beyond John) John followed the man out into the street after apologising profusely to the stammering thirty-something. 

"Why do you always have to be such a massive dick?" John asked as he rounded on Sherlock in the cramped alleyway next to the boutique. 

"The soaps she sells smelled awful and she was misrepresenting the thread count on those sheets! She's as good as stealing from her customers! I don't know why you weren't more incensed!" Sherlock spit back, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette lighter and a crumpled pack. 

John tore the lot from his hand and pushed him against the brick wall. He was breathing roughly and his fingers actually hurt where they gripped. Sherlock stared back at him with anger in his eyes, he didn't know why. 

"What? What is actually wrong?" John demanded. 

Sherlock sneered and looked away. "The potpourri-" 

John gripped his chin and forced him to meet his gaze. When he did there was a look of concern there instead of anger. Sherlock was achingly aware of how close they were, how easy it would be to break the distance in a rush forward. He felt every single breath leave John's body. 

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock. I can tell when you're lying." John said softly. 

"You're hurting me." Sherlock replied in an equally soft voice. 

John let go of him and took a step back. "Jesus, I'm sorry." he said in a rough exhale. 

Sherlock straightened his coat jacket and took the pack of cigarettes and lighter back from John's now slack hand. John watched him as he placed a cigarette between his lips and held the lighter aloft. The small flame popped up and then faltered and sputtered out. Sherlock shoved the cigarette back in the pack and stuffed both it and the lighter back in his pocket. 

"I can't smoke while you're giving me puppy eyes." he said in exasperation. 

John smiled sadly and followed him out to the street. They caught a cab and returned to 221b in a kind of tense silence. 

_____

Three hours went by in the same silence before John excused himself and went to bed. Sherlock stayed where he'd been sat on the sofa for another four hours before he heard a noise from up the stairs. It wasn't the first time he'd heard John having a nightmare but this one sounded different. 

He pulled his dressing gown tight around him and approached the stairs. He could hear panting and a pained whine. He took the stairs quickly and walked through the door to see what was wrong. 

What he saw took his breath away and it was quite hard, erm, difficult, to tamp down his next impulse. 

Jerking off while standing over your new flatmate was something that Sherlock was convinced was very bad. Not simply 'not good'. He told himself that as he stood at the foot of John's bed and watched the man experience a wet dream. He was moaning low and shifting his hips slightly and Sherlock wanted, for the first time ever, to get closer.

Instead he turned and very quietly walked downstairs, making sure to skip the twelfth and third step, and made his way to his bedroom. He let his robe fall to the floor and slithered out of his pajama bottoms and pants and into bed.

He lay there, nude, staring at the ceiling for quite some time. His breath was coming in great puffs, as if he'd just run three blocks, and his cock stood up painfully from his body.

He was sure he'd never been more physically aroused before in his life and it was horrible. He'd have to scrap all his findings and start over. His charts and spreadsheets were useless. He was obviously not just asexual and that was-ohhh.

He let his hand run over his cock again and closed his eyes.

Oh, that, that was very nice. Yes, he should do that again. Being upset over data was something he could easily do after he just, oh, yes, that.

He breathed roughly through his nose as he pushed the sheets down to his waist and started moving his hand faster. It was obvious that he should be taking note of the physiological differences between normal wanking and this, this sort of super-wanking that was happening. He simply couldn't. 

He rolled his bollocks with his other hand and sighed deeply. More. He needed more stimuli.

John.

One word, one name. It was all it took for him to lose control and turn into a wild animal, thrusting up into his fist and grunting. He came in short spurts, covering his chest and stomach, a bit later. His whole lower arm hurt but his wrist had taken the brunt of the abuse. 

Within seconds he was boneless and swimming in a sea of endorphins, oxytocin and prolactin. He closed his eyes and let himself drift. 

_____

The next morning Sherlock was convinced John would see him and immediately know he'd touched himself while thinking of the doctor. It was miserable sitting across from him at breakfast. John kept looking up at him and then away nervously. Sherlock was about to bolt when he spoke. 

"About last night-" John began. 

"It won't happen again." Sherlock insisted. 

John chuckled and sat back in his seat. "I don't think it's wise to make that kind of promise. Seems like it's sort of in your nature." 

Sherlock felt the heat on his face and knew he must look like a beet. "I swear it's never happened before!" he shouted. "Well, there was the time when you shot the gun, but I didn't realise what it was at the time and-" 

"Sherlock, I'm not asking you to change. I know I shouldn't say this, but I rather like it about you. I always do enjoy a companion that's a little rough." John added with a smirk. 

Sherlock fell out of his seat and hit the floor. 

_____

When he came to John was leaning over him. 

"Are you going to kiss me now?" Sherlock asked blearily. 

"Am I what? Sherlock, are you alright? Do you know who I am?" John asked, flummoxed over the response and the slightly glazed eyes of his friend. 

"Of course I'm alright, John. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock said back, sitting up and rubbing his head. 

"Because we were talking about you being rude to that woman yesterday and you passed out!" John replied, looking closely at Sherlock for signs of concusion. 

"How I was rude?" Sherlock asked, eyes wide. 

"Yes, and I said I kind of like it about you. Do you not remember? Christ, how hard did you hit your head?" John replied, helping Sherlock up from the floor and into his seat. 

"Oh." Sherlock whispered. 

John flitted around him for a bit and Sherlock must have managed to reply normally because John never insisted they go to A&E but he really couldn't focus. His kind was stuck in a loop. 

'Are you going to kiss me now?'  
'Are you going to kiss me now?'  
'Are YOU going to kiss me now?'  
'Are YOU going to kiss ME now?'  
'Kiss. Me.'  
'Kiss me now.'  
'Now.'

When he finally shook himself and stood John stayed at his side, yammering on, as he went to his room. He took out his suitcase and started packing without saying a word. John watched him for a bit before remembering their trip was for later that day then went to pack as well.


	16. Thoughts In A DB

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The car is the Aston Martin DB mark III. It featured in the Bond books after James' beloved 35 Bently 3 1/2 liter was destroyed.

 

 

By the time John was packed and dressed the flush had abandoned Sherlock's cheeks and made what felt like a permanent home about his neck. He pulled his scarf around it with an angry huff and texted his driver, the one he almost never used.

"Orange juice and a piece of toast." John said as he approached the front door.

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock insisted.

John sighed and went back to the kitchen to set the food down. He returned to where Sherlock stood looking at his mobile by the front door and crossed his arms.

"I honestly don't know what's wrong. You've been acting off ever since last night. If there's something I've done..." John said, trailing off at the end.

Sherlock breathed deeply before shoving his mobile in his coat pocket and looking up. John chewed on his lip.

"John Watson, you have done nothing wrong. I am a brat and there's nothing more to it. Stop looking so sullen and get in the holiday spirit, for God's sake." Sherlock said with a frown.

With the opposing notes of disappointment and comfort it took a while for John to smile. When he did it was a bloody glorious thing.

"I just thought-" he began.

"There's your problem." Sherlock teased.

John rolled his eyes and there was a knock at the front door. Sherlock opened it to find Mrs Hudson with a basket full of hand made pastries.

"Happy almost Christmas." she chirped.

John picked up the horribly wrapped bottle of wine the two men had decided on and exchanged gifts with her.

"Don't have more than a glass if you plan on taking your evening soother." he said with a wink.

She tutted and kissed them both on the cheek before walking back down the steps. A man in a fine suit came into the entryway just as she'd left it and nodded in Sherlock's direction.  
"Let's go." Sherlock said, picking his bags up and descending the stairs.

John followed after them and was only out the door by three steps before he stopped in his tracks, bag falling to the ground.

"Well, fuck me." he gasped.

Sherlock turned and looked him up and down for a second before telling the voice in his brain saying 'I intend to' to shut up. It was nothing to do with him, after all.

"I thought you were a soldier, not a sailor." Sherlock teased as he put his bags in the back of the car.

"Really though," John muttered, "fuck-"

"You, yes, John. Got it. Are you going to just stand there gawking or are you going to put your things in?" Sherlock replied with mock disgust.

He was honestly quite pleased with himself. He'd always loved this car in particular but the fact that it drew out such a...base response from the doctor was a new treat.

"That's a bloody DBIII." John said, walking over and running his hand along the flank.

"Wonderful, you have eyes. Shall we be off?" Sherlock prodded, getting the keys from the driver and standing beside John.

"That's a bloody DBIII." John repeated.

"Yes, you've-" Sherlock sighed.

"In peony red." John added quickly. "It placed 2nd, 3rd, and 4th at Silverstone May 1952."

"Really, John-" Sherlock began, feeling a bit silly enjoying all the vicarious attention.

"2.6 or 2.9?" John asked, finger actually brushing against Sherlock's lips for a second to quiet him.

"Why would I get the 2.6?" Sherlock asked with a small snort.

John looked at him finally and was a bit distant before grinning all the way to his ears and laughing. Sherlock once again thought he was being laughed at, something he'd obviously have to get over fast if he was to fully enjoy his time with John. When he realised it was the sort of giddy laugh you get out of a child who's just seen their favorite movie star he allowed himself a small smile in return.

"Oh, Sherlock, she's gorgeous." John crooned.

"You're a pitiful romantic, you know that?" Sherlock said as he handed the keys over.

John cradled them in his hand and chewed his bottom lip. Sherlock let his hand drift to the shorter man's shoulder briefly before getting his bag from where it was left on the stoop and putting it in the back. He then slipped into the passenger seat and chuckled when he saw John fiddling under the drivers seat.  
"What in God's name are you doing?" he asked.

"Looking for the Colt." John replied. "Don't look at me like that! You're the one with a bloody Bond car! How am I to know it isn't fitted out with all the gadgetry from the books?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John shrugged before slipping into the driver's seat.

"It should take us just over two hours to get there. Head towards Trafalgar square and then exit onto Northumberland Ave." Sherlock said as he waved out the window to his driver.

The man gave them a curt nod and could be seen smiling to himself as they drove away.

_____

John was still going on about the car thirty minutes into the drive, although now it was in almost controlled bursts and he did seem a bit embarrassed by them.

"I read all the books years ago. I've seen the movies too, of course. Which was your favorite?" John asked at last.

"Hmm? Oh, James Bond? Never got around to it." Sherlock replied absently.

"You never-what does that even mean?" John demanded.

"Oh, well, mummy bought me the books. I suppose it was another ill placed attempt at getting me to be the type of boy who had friends. Never found the time to read them." Sherlock said in his usual put upon tone.

"If you never read them then why do you have the fucking car?" John asked, thoroughly confused.

"I honestly don't know if I like the effect this car is having on your vocabulary, John." Sherlock said with a false frown. "It was a handsome car. I have an affinity for Aston Martin and the mark series was quite popular at the time I was looking."

"So you just happened to get the one bond drove." John scoffed.

"I enjoy the clean lines and the way it drives. Do I have less right to my opinion than someone who appreciates it for its pop culture status?" Sherlock asked, honestly not understanding what the big deal was.

"No. No, that's not what I meant." John replied. "I'm just amazed you picked this exact car, that's all."

"I've got the DB 2/4 drophead as well. We'll take her on a drive this summer." Sherlock replied. "I've a coal scuttle and a series two but they mostly stay in. A few years ago Mycroft tried to get me to buy a vanquish but I wasn't intrigued. There's a 2-liter sports in the works, coming from India in the next year if the deal goes through, and I'd love to have it as my everyday car... John, your eyes have gone all buggy."

John looked back at the road and swallowed hard. "The 2-liter sports. There were fifteen made."  he said quietly.

"That's why it's taken this long to get one." Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"I think I might just hate you." John said.

When he saw Sherlock's face go a bit pale he punched his shoulder.

"Just kidding, Jesus." he said.

Sherlock smiled weakly and John saw for a second how fragile he really was. It was an uncomfortable thing to witness. He did what Watson's do best, he changed the subject.

"Is Mycroft going to be there when we arrive or do I get to meet your parents without him watching me like a hawk?"

"He'll be in later tonight. He can't take off more than one day of work this year. He pretty much runs the government." Sherlock replied.

John laughed and relaxed a bit, not knowing how close to true the statement was.

_____

They were at Sherlock's parents house in no time, the rain turning wicked as they pulled up. The house was small, not horribly so, but still, and nothing like what John had expected. He now knew why Sherlock was more comfortable at 221b than one of the ritzy high rises he'd first pictured him in.

"She's going to feed you. She'll feed you sick if you're not careful. Then she'll get to take care of you. I swear it's a conspiracy." Sherlock said as he ran with John to the front door.

"You think everything's a conspiracy." John teased.

The front door opened and a cherub-cheeked woman with Sherlock's eyes pulled John into a hug. John hugged her back after a second and Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past.

"John Watson!" the woman said as she pulled away at length.

"Mrs Holmes, I presume." John said with a tentative smile.

"Aren't you just charming." she replied. "Come in, I've got lunch all set."

John chuckled as Sherlock gave him a little 'I warned you' look and followed her through to the kitchen.


	17. So Do I

After lunch Mr Holmes came home and met John with a wide grin and a firm handshake. 

"You must be John." he said. "It's so good to meet you. Sherlock's been telling mummy about you for the whole week. We didn't know if you'd be able to make it." 

John's smile went a bit wobbly and he was glad Sherlock wasn't in the room. "I, um, well, I'm glad I could. It's nice to meet you too." 

"So you're doing a bit of work for Sherlock?" Mr Holmes asked as he sat next to John by the fire. 

"Yes, I'm his personal assistant." John replied, taking a sip of his brandy. 

"The last few went screaming from the building. Guess you must be made of tougher stuff than that." Mr Holmes said as he poured himself a drink. 

"Yes, well, he's really not that bad." John said with a laugh. 

"You're the first friend he's had in years." 

They both frowned at that and the mood seemed to turn somber. John really didn't know what to say in response so he just hummed and stared into the fire. 

"He's a good boy. Always has been. I think it broke his heart when Mycroft went away to uni. He never was quite the same. They were close, you know." Mr Holmes said after a bit. 

"I didn't know." John admitted, recognising there was a lot he didn't know about Sherlock. 

"Yes. Only person besides my wife that could keep up with him intellectually. It's good to know he has you now. I hate thinking he's lonely." 

"He's...he's become quite the staple in my life. Sometimes I think he'll drive me mad but then he does something brilliant and I fall-" John said, choking when he realised what he was about to say. "And then I forgive him." he said quickly. 

Mr Holmes gave him a knowing smile and he looked away. 

"My wife is the same way. Although she doesn't have the problems with social things that Sherlock does. Sometimes I think they have more brains than sense. That's probably why I fell in love with her. Hard to say no to someone so tenacious, don't you find it?" Mr Holmes asked. 

"Y-yes." John stuttered. 

"I don't mind that you're a man, you know. You fit him. That's all that I care about." The older man whispered just as Sherlock was walking into the room. 

"I'm bored." Sherlock complained. "Let's go to the beach." 

John swallowed with an audible click and turned around. "It's raining." 

"We can wear boots. Come on, John. I'm bored." Sherlock whined the last bit and John sighed but stood. 

He followed Sherlock to the front of the house and slipped his shoes off so he could get into a pair of boots that looked his size. He put on his jacket and gloves and Sherlock passed him an umbrella. 

"Have fun, boys. Don't get too wet." Mrs Holmes cooed. 

"Yes, mummy." Sherlock replied as he opened the door. 

John smirked and followed him out into the formidable weather. They wound their way through the back yard and down to the water in no time. The beach was deserted, due to the rain, and they made it to a large piece of driftwood that could act as a bench. 

"What was father saying about me?" Sherlock asked as he sat. 

"Nothing. Just that he was glad I came." John lied. 

"You know I can tell when you're lying." Sherlock replied, lips turning into a pout. 

"He said you haven't had a friend in a long time." John answered truthfully. 

"People find me abrasive. I'm sure you can see why." Sherlock said with a loud sniff. 

"Well, people are idiots. You taught me that." John said, placing him hand over Sherlock's for a second before drawing it away. 

Sherlock looked down at his hand and then up at John. There was a long time then when the silence seemed to pull them closer. John wanted to put his hand back on Sherlock's, perhaps even twine their fingers together and brush his thumb across his knuckles. Sherlock looked away first. 

"Thank you for coming." he said shortly. 

"Sure." John said, voice choked a bit with emotion. 

John's umbrella was moving with the wind and he shivered as some rain made it under and to his exposed neck. Sherlock saw and unwound his scarf. He stopped and swallowed hard before setting down his umbrella and wrapping the scarf around John's neck. 

When their eyes met time seemed to freeze again. The only way to tell that it hadn't was the fact that Sherlock's hair was catching the rain in a quite beautiful way. 

"Pick up your umbrella, git. You'll catch cold." John said with a soft smile. 

Sherlock echoed the smile and picked the thing up. "Is that your professional opinion, doctor?" 

"Yes." John said, breaking out into a wide grin. "And I remember how much trouble you were last time you were sick." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You were getting paid." 

"And I wouldn't take the money this time." John said quickly, not sure yet what the ramifications of the statement would be. 

"But you would...watch after me." Sherlock said softly. 

"Course I would." John replied, leaning against Sherlock's side. "Can't expect you to feed yourself, after all." 

Sherlock snorted and rested his hand on John's knee. 

They stayed like that for a long time. Long after their fingers were cold through their gloves. Long after the rain stopped and the birds started heading home for the night. Sherlock's hand remained on John's knee, anchoring him there. In a place where someone cared about him and he felt like showing affection. 

"Well, what do we have here?" Mycroft asked from behind them hours later. 

Sherlock jolted and drew his hand away from John's knee. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. 

"Mummy sent me to fetch you two for dinner. You've been out here all day." Mycroft replied. 

John cleared his throat and stood carefully, his leg acting up a bit in the cold. 

"I'd like to speak to John. Why don't you head up?" Mycroft said. 

Sherlock sneered but went ahead of them none the less. 

"What can I do for you?" John asked, really not caring a damn bit. 

"What are your intentions with my brother?" Mycroft asked. 

John laughed and then gaped when he got no reaction. "Are you serious?" 

"You've known each other for under two months and he's brought you to Christmas with the parents. Are we going to have a big announcement at dinner?" Mycroft asked, playing with the cuff of his coat. 

"What are you on about?" John asked, feeling a telltale heat move its way up his neck. 

"I saw the way you were sitting together. Is it the money?" Mycroft asked.

"Fuck off!" John growled, walking around him and starting back to the house. 

"I can offer you a considerable sum to leave him alone if that's what you're after." Mycroft added, jogging to keep up. 

"I'll bloody punch you if you keep this up. With your mum right up the street and everything." John threatened. 

Mycroft gripped his arm and he spun around angrily. 

"He's already quite attached." the taller man said. "I'm only trying to protect him. You've got a sibling, you know what it's like." 

John's shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his short cropped hair. 

"Look," he said, "it's none of your business. Don't make me say it again." 

Mycroft swallowed and nodded once before beginning up the path. He stopped when he was a few yards away and turned back. 

"I know how to hide a body." he said. 

John half grinned. "So do I." 

Mycroft cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. John thought then that he must have never heard a reply like that. He felt a bit smug over it. Bastard.


	18. Handsome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas eve dinner and shenanigans. 
> 
>  
> 
> Christmas crackers are these things made of paper tubes that you pull apart. They have toys and paper crowns and little papers with jokes and there is a string that goes through the middle that makes a crack when it breaks. Check them out online.

When John made it back to the house Sherlock was pacing by the front door. He looked more worried than John had seen the man in their short acquaintance. John slipped out of the boots and Sherlock watched closely as he hung his coat by the door and removed his gloves. 

"You aren't leaving?" Sherlock asked. 

John smirked up at him. "And let the government win?" 

Sherlock had a moment to smile widely at the shorter man before mummy came out of the kitchen with a tray full of drinks and mini toasts. 

"Boys! You were gone so long we thought you'd been lost to the sea! Try the mulled wine, I made it myself." mummy said as the two men, not boys, Sherlock would remind her later (to little effect), broke from the spell of each other's smiles. 

John looked the tray over and picked up one of the wine glasses. "Don't mind if I do." 

He should have known something was afoot by the way the woman watched him. Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes off John so he was no help at all, the big oaf. John threw his head back and took a long drink. 

"Mrs Holmes!" he wheezed. 

"Thrice distilled." she said with a guilty smile. "You should probably just sip it." 

John held onto the wall for a moment before smiling back weakly and taking a newly hesitant sip. He grabbed an hors d'oeuvre and chewed well before swallowing. 

"I think you've made moonshine." he said after a moment. "It's, it's tasty." 

Sherlock chuckled and mummy looked at him pointedly. He reached for a glass right away and took the smallest of sips. 

"Mulberry?" he asked. 

She grinned widely and nodded. 

"Take the tray to the sitting room while John helps me with the last bits of dinner." she said, passing the tray to Sherlock and taking John by the arm. 

John followed along, happy to spend time with the woman. She was kind and a little peculiar and he liked her more the longer he knew her. She'd told some fantastic jokes at lunch. It made him miss his mum. 

"So, how can I help?" he asked, running as far away from the last thought as possible. 

"How is Sherlock?" she asked, passing him a flannel then adding. "stand there and look busy." 

John looked over his shoulder and saw Mycroft walk past them through the hall. He glanced back at her and she was smiling like a child who'd got away with something. 

"He's nosy. Always has been. Now, go on, be my little spy." she said with a giggle. 

John cleared his throat and tried hard not to smile back. "He's fine. Sherlock is, well, he's fine. He has plenty of clients." 

Mrs Holmes shushed him and waved her hand, invoking Sherlock a bit. "I don't care how work is going, how is HE?" 

John leaned against the cooktop and smiled softly. "He's impossible." he replied. 

She gave him a knowing smile and John let his eyes drop to the floor. 

"So, how about you, John? Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?" she asked with a wink. 

John choked on his sip of mulberry wine(ish). "No. No, I'm, uh, single." 

Mrs Holmes patted him on the shoulder and walked away in the direction of the sitting room. John downed the rest of the wine with a wince and refilled his glass. He felt like he was going on a blind date with his parents there. It was more than a little unsettling. 

_____

Dinner seemed to pass in no time. Both of Sherlock's parents were great story tellers, even if they finished each other's jokes, and John was delighted by the wide array of food. He understood then why Sherlock had warned him that she'd feed him all the way to the sick bed, and he'd go willingly if he got to stay for another week. 

"And then she told me-" Mr Holmes began. 

"That there was no goose!" Mrs Holmes finished. 

John couldn't stop giggling. He sincerely couldn't remember ever hearing a funnier story about water foul. He let his head slump to the table and giggled harder at that. He was drunk. He had to be drunk, he was almost pissing himself over a story about a bloody goose. 

"Nonsense!" Sherlock shouted. "You've got the story round, round, sideways. The old man was the one with the rifle. Don't you remember?" 

John looked up to see his own smile mirrored in Sherlock and the two men fell into another fit of giggles. John couldn't believe how absolutely gorgeous those damn cheekbones were, painted red and glossy with the effects of the wine. He wanted to reach out and run a thumb along them, wondered if they were just as sharp when the gangly fool was happy.

"It's time to open a present!" Mr Holmes announced. 

"And crackers!" Mrs Holmes added. 

The lot moved to the sitting room and John sidled up next to Sherlock. 

"We only have one present for each of them. Which one should we bring out?" he asked. 

"Only the children open presents the night before Christmas, John!" Sherlock said with a snort. 

John looked confused for a second before Mrs Holmes handed  him a cracker and refilled his drink. He took one side and held the other out for Sherlock. 

"Okay, boys, go ahead!" Mr Holmes said, standing to the side so they couldn't see the camera in his hand. 

Sherlock grinned at John and pulled hard on his end. So hard he ended up on his arse on the floor. John laughed, so thoroughly that he had to set down his drink, before he noticed the look of dismay on Sherlock's face. He knelt in front of the man and brushed a finger over his nose. 

"You didn't pull at all!" Sherlock whined. "I had to do all the work!" 

John didn't go over the logistics of crackers and the fact that there was really no work TO be done. Instead he picked the small green dinosaur from the floor and pressed it into Sherlock's hand. While Sherlock was looking at it carefully he unfolded the orange paper crown and fitted it onto Sherlock's head. Sherlock glanced up with wide eyes and Mycroft snickered. 

"Look who's the little prince." Mycroft teased. "Should have made you wear a silly hat earlier." 

Sherlock made to take the crown off as Mrs Holmes scolded Mycroft but John stopped him. He pulled his hand away and held it for a second. 

"I think it's quite handsome." he said, wondering when it became such work to blink. 

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip and turned a new shade of pink. Luckily for both of them Mrs Holmes handed John another cracker and he settled with it on the floor next to Sherlock. 

"I'll do the work this time." he said with a smile. 

Sherlock took his half and pulled just as hard as the time before, falling onto his back and laughing loudly. John, who had fallen on top of him, sat up and poked him with his toes. 

"You're a bloody show off! That's all there is to it!" he ribbed. 

Sherlock picked up the small plastic ring from the floor and pushed it onto John's pinky finger. Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock cleared his throat while he unfolded the pink paper crown and joke card. 

"Why did the man sleep under his car?" he prompted, trying not to look in John's direction. 

"Why?" mummy asked. 

"So he could wake up good and oily." Sherlock replied. 

John snorted and Sherlock looked up. 

"I don't get it." he exclaimed. 

"It's a pun!" John said. 

Sherlock wrinkled up his nose and shouted, "Another!" 

Mummy passed them one more as Sherlock put the pink paper crown on John's head. John could feel himself flush and suddenly wondered why they were the only two on the floor. 

"Mycroft! Pull my cracker." he said. 

Sherlock howled with laughter and Mycroft gripped the end of the cracker with a put upon sigh. John pulled and there was another short pop and another paper crown and another small toy. All he knew was that Sherlock was still giggling beside him and mummy was now sitting in the chair by his side and his wine glass was too far away. 

"All the boys get a present now!" mummy announced. 

Mr Holmes passed each of them a small wrapped box and John only had a moment to wonder how he'd got one as well before Sherlock was pushing him with his feet and pestering him to open it. 

"You'll like it! It's socks! You like socks!" Sherlock said loudly. 

John, who didn't seem deterred at all by knowing what it was, tore at the paper and grinned when it revealed two pair of finely made silk socks in a dark blue. He brushed his thumbs across them reverently and Sherlock choked on his own saliva. 

"Soft." John murmured. 

Sherlock sat up and pulled the second pair out of his hand and played with the hem while watching John caress the fabric. 

"Thank you, Mrs Holmes, thank you, Mr Holmes." John said at last. 

"Yes, thank you, mummy." Sherlock added,  voice deep and a bit incongruous with the statement.  

"Okay, lads. Let's get off to bed." Mr Holmes said, pocketing the camera. 

"Oh, that reminds me!" Mrs Holmes chirped. "We couldn't find the cot! I'm sure we can find somewhere else for you to sleep, John. Perhaps the sofa." 

"Nonsense!" Sherlock shouted. "One night on that relic and John's shoulder will be murder. There's plenty of room in my bed." 

The sitting room seemed eerily quiet for a moment before Mr Holmes spoke up. 

"That's very kind of you, Sherlock. Well, now that it's settled we'll be off." he said with a nod to his wife. 

She followed him out of the sitting room after giving each of the boys a kiss on the head. Mycroft was thankfully silent as he left the two overgrown children on the floor. 

"John." Sherlock said softly. 

John smiled at him. "Come on then, up you go." 

They both stood and Sherlock led him to his childhood room. It was dark blue and large enough to fit a king sized four poster comfortably. Sherlock went to his suitcase and started undressing after finding his pajama trousers. John watched him for a long time before he realised he probably shouldn't. 

"There's something I meant to tell you." Sherlock said just as he'd pulled off his shirt. 

John swallowed audibly as Sherlock walked forward in just his pajama trousers, skin pale and soft and oh, so bare. 

"Yes?" he asked. 

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and breathed deeply. 

"What did the alien say to the gardener?" he asked. 

John just stood gaping, sure that there was supposed to be something other than a flimsy cracker joke between them just then. 

"Take me to your weeder." Sherlock said. "Weeder, John. Because it rhymes with-" 

John cut him off with a hand in his hair and tentative lips. He let his eyes slide closed and Sherlock hummed deeply before moving against him. John's mind was warring, stuck between focusing on 'I'm kissing Sherlock' and 'I must be dreaming because I'm kissing Sherlock and that doesn't happen in real life'. 

He had just decided that real life was boring anyway and if he had to choose he'd just stay here in the weird, drunken, make believe, Sherlock-kissing universe, when Sherlock's tongue pressed between his lips. 

He moaned softly around it and was just getting to the point where he was going to take charge when Sherlock drew away. 

"You taste like mulberry wine and cinnamon." the taller man whispered. 

"I..." John tried. 

Sherlock nodded and slithered back on the bed and under the covers. John cleared his throat, which seemed to be full of some kind of overwhelming emotion, and stripped down to his pants and a t-shirt. He crawled onto the bed and climbed under the duvet. 

"John." Sherlock whispered. 

The older man smiled and brushed his thumb across Sherlock's lower lip. 

"You're still wearing your crown." John whispered. 

Sherlock grinned and brought his hand up to it. "I'm going to wear it forever." 

John chuckled. "Even to bed?" he asked. 

"Mmmmm. You said it was handsome." Sherlock replied. 

John pressed a soft kiss to his lips and flopped back against the pillow. 

"So are you." John said. "Handsome and...asleep." 

Sherlock was, in fact, asleep. His eyes were closed and his lips were parted slightly. John sighed happily and removed the paper crown before brushing a hand through riotous curls. 

"Goodnight, Sherlock." he whispered.


	19. Wake Me When Winter's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter tonight because so much shit is going on at work that I honestly can't think. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I lost myself in Sherlock for a bit and that was exactly what I needed. For those of you that commented on the last chapter, I will answer you all tomorrow and you are FUCKING AMAZING. You'll never know how much your support keeps me afloat. 
> 
> Kate

Sherlock woke around four in the morning, never able to sleep a whole night. His first thought was somewhat along the lines of 'my head, bloody hell'. His second thought was centered around the fact that he found himself in a rather precarious position. He had one arm under the pillow and below John's neck and the other wrapped around the sleeping soldier's chest while both legs were somehow tangled around the smaller man. 

The position afforded him the opportunity to smell John, really smell him. He promised himself he'd look up the possibility of chemical reactions between sleeping partners once he got to his laptop because this was different. This was remarkable. Not just the word either, he was sure he needed to tell John. Needed to tell him that he smelled like home. He smelled like safety. It was ridiculous and sentimental and perhaps even a bit frivolous but there was no other way to describe it. 

He stuck his face in John's neck, feeling something in his chest pull tight at the small snuffle the sleeping man gave, and just INHALED. Christ. He could do that forever. He'd no idea someone's body could smell so good. It didn't make any sense. He inhaled again and had a passing thought that it might become a worse addiction than cigarettes. 

This, he realised, was why people ached for romantic physical contact. He'd never wanted to be so close to someone before, to crawl inside them and just nap for a while.

'Wake me when winter's over', he thought. 

John moved his hand slightly where it rested on Sherlock's waist and bunched up the fabric of his pajama trousers in his fist. It felt like being wanted, like being desired, and Sherlock suddenly needed to kiss John. The idea of pressing one's lips to another's as a sign of affection had always been strange to him. Sure, he kissed Mrs Hudson and his mother on the cheek from time to time, but he'd lacked the actual aching-in-the-bone desire people talked about. 

Now that it was here, rearing its head and making itself known without a doubt, Sherlock felt as though he might explode. He simply had to kiss John, it wasn't a matter of want. 

He kissed his t-shirt covered shoulder softly and then, when the man didn't wake, kissed it with a more open mouth. He did it again, and again, and then once more for good measure, and went to his mind palace to store it away. The heat of John's body against his accompanied him.


	20. Good

At six, when his internal alarm went off, John woke to a screaming headache and a parched mouth. That and the realisation that he was alone in bed when he gone to sleep with Sherlock next to him. He didn't know Sherlock's sleeping habits, and therefore didn't want to speculate too much, but he felt a loss at that. 

He rolled onto his stomach and stretched deeply before slipping from the bed and looking around, then scrubbed a hand across his face and went to clean up a bit in the en suite. The room was filled with steam so Sherlock must have just showered. John wondered if it would be in bad taste to toss one off while thinking about that. Sherlock in the shower. Naked. Warm and wet. 

Well, it looked like he'd have no choice. 

He stripped out of his pajamas and was delighted to find there was enough hot water left. He picked out a bottle of lightly scented shampoo and lathered his hair before rinsing and using the body wash to slick up his half hard cock. He closed his eyes and felt himself harden in his hand as he thought of the kiss from the night before. He wanted more, Christ how he wanted more. 

_____

Sherlock had spent the time from five until six ten in the library reading. Alright, that was a lie. He spent it hiding. He did hold a book while doing so though, and that seemed enough of a cover to work through the questions in his mind in peace. When he had finally got up the courage to ask John if the kiss the night before was simply drunken folly he found the bedroom empty and sounds coming from the loo. The shower and something more. 

He went to knock, ask John if he wanted tea, when he heard what could only be a moan. His body reacted before his mind put the sound and timing together. 

John was in the shower.  
John had moaned.  
When people moan in the shower they are most likely getting themselves off.  
John was most likely getting himself off. 

The last thought had pulled him from his mind with such force that he had to brace himself against the wall. He pressed his back against it and held his breath so he could listen. Slick sounds, heavy breathing. 

It felt hedonistic to grind the heel of his palm against his erection through his trousers. Hedonistic in a fantastically new way. Giving himself pleasure while listening to another do the same was overwhelming and made him feel drunk again. 

He unbuttoned his trousers and slipped his hand down the front of his pants to wrap it around his prick. It lengthened at the touch and he ran his thumb across the head, pulling the foreskin up and then back. He couldn't keep his eyes open. It was too heady. 

He usually could last quite a long time, backing off when he grew close to climax and then drawing himself back in. Today was not a day for luxurious play and he knew it. 

John was getting close. 

Sherlock pulled quickly and let his hips push his cock through his fist. He was just getting to the perfect rhythm when he heard John sigh his name. It couldn't have been anything else. 'Sherlock' doesn't sound like any word he could be using. It was definitely-OH. 

He was quick enough to catch most of his come in his hand and press the rest against the taught skin of his stomach so he didn't actually ruin his pants like a teenager. He fumbled for a cloth to draw across it and had just cleaned his hand, in between his fingers thoroughly, when John emerged from the loo with a towel slung low around his waist. 

"Jesus!" John yelped. 

"Not quite." Sherlock replied with a look away. 

"Sorry, I, erm, I thought you'd gone out." John replied. 

"I had." Sherlock said, not so stealthily pushing the rag covered in his own release below his pillow. 

"I meant, I, well, I thought you were still gone." John said nervously. 

Nervous. Why was John nervous? 

"Mmm." Sherlock said as he pretended to go through his bags for a reason not centered around avoiding John's gaze. 

"I'll just..." John said, picking clothes out of his bag and walking back into the loo. 

Sherlock nearly collapsed against the bed when the door closed behind him. His head was spinning. 

He was supposed to be calm. He'd planned on telling John that in his opinion what happened last night wasn't just a drunken mistake and he would like to continue with their liason if possible. He was going to be clear and to the point. 

Instead of going through with the plan he'd come all over himself and failed completely at even looking John in the eye. Pathetic. 

He fled the room and made his way to the kitchen before John came out of the loo. He washed his hands, scrubbing at the skin a bit painfully, as if he could remove the feeling of failure.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're done thinking! Help me set up breakfast. Do you think your John is awake yet?" Mrs Holmes said quickly as she bustled through the room and filled a tray with baked goods. 

"John is up. He's getting dressed. I was reading." Sherlock spit back. 

"Sure, dear. Now bring the orange juice." she replied with a knowing grin. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and carried the juice and some glasses to the table. Mycroft was already there, reading the paper next to father. Sherlock sat down across from him and frowned at his empty plate. 

"Good morning!" John announced as he walked into the room and took his seat next to Sherlock. 

"Good morning, dearie! How did you sleep?" Mrs Holmes asked.  
"Right, well. Comfortable bed." John said, clearing his throat and looking at his napkin. 

"I'm sure it was warm as well." Mycroft said with a quirked eyebrow. 

"Oh, stop that." Mr Holmes said, swatting Mycroft with his own napkin. 

Mycroft took a second to look scandalized before putting a croissant in his mouth and staring at John pointedly. 

"Yes, Mycroft, do eat more. God knows you need the extra calories." Sherlock snipped. 

John elbowed Sherlock but smiled none the less. Mr and Mrs Holmes didn't seem to hear but Mycroft set the croissant down and picked up an apple with a scowl. 

"Aren't you going to have anything?" mummy asked when she noticed Sherlock wasn't serving himself. 

Sherlock huffed and John stuck a sausage, toast and beans on his plate. When he crossed his arms John pushed the plate closer to him and rested a hand on his knee. It was unexpected but garnered results. Sherlock picked up the toast and took a bite. John squeezed his knee and went back to his own meal. 

No one mentioned that Sherlock was obviously only eating because John had put the food there for him, something Sherlock was afraid would make him the butt of a joke, and breakfast went on smoothly. 

Once it had all been cleaned up the five of them went into the sitting room and gathered around the fire. John had placed the presents for Mr and Mrs Holmes and the one for Mycroft under the tree and had Sherlock's tucked against his side. It was a small package but he hoped it would be exactly what Sherlock wanted. 

"I’ll be Santa." father said, reaching under the tree and bringing presents to everyone. 

John was surprised when he was presented with four packages. Two were from Santa, undoubtedly Sherlock's parents, one from Mycroft, surprisingly and one from Sherlock. 

"Open the one from me first." Sherlock insisted, ignoring the fact that there were other people in the room and leaning in towards John. 

John grinned and tore the red paper away. There was a gorgeous dark blue cashmere cardigan and a small envelope inside. He opened the envelope to find a piece of paper with three dates and times written. 

"It's beautiful." he said. "And what's this?" 

"Interview times. Three of the best surgeons in the London are looking for assistants. All of them work at Bart's. I took the liberty of setting up appointments for you." Sherlock replied. 

"Sherlock." John said in a confused stage whisper. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come now, John. You can't spend your whole life running around after me." 

"Sorry, are you being made redundant on Christmas?" Mycroft asked. 

"I'm not firing him, Mycroft." Sherlock spit. 

John swallowed deeply and stuck the paper in his pocket. He passed Sherlock's present over and sat back to watch him open it. When he saw what was inside the beat up notebook his eyes went wide. 

"It isn't." he said. 

"I still have a few connections." John replied. 

"What is it, dear?" Mrs Holmes asked. 

"It's a notebook. The notebook George M. Whitesides used while working on the project that won him the Kyoto prize for advanced technology given by the Inamori foundation in 2003. He has one of the highest Hirsch index ratings of all living chemists! I met him in 2001 when he received the Doctorit Honoris Causa from the University of Twente. Brilliant man!" Sherlock exclaimed, and then a bit softer. "John, did you steal this?" 

"Of course I didn't bloody steal it! Christ, Sherlock." John shouted. 

Everyone in the room looked over at them and John rolled his eyes.

"I didn't steal it. I bought it online. It was up for auction to support stem cell research." John added. 

Sherlock looked at John as if he might just be the rarest specimen he'd ever found. It was a bit uncomfortable, being the recipient of that sort of gaze. Uncomfortable yet thrilling. 

"So you like it? I had no idea what to get you, to be honest." John said, fidgeting in his seat. 

"It's perfect." Sherlock said. 

It sounded quite a deal like 'you're perfect' and that was not lost on John. His smile said he knew, hesitant at first and then brilliant. He looked away, after what he knew was an inappropriate amount of time, and opened the gift from Mycroft, a bottle of good scotch, then the one from mummy, a dress shirt, and Mr Holmes, a fine wallet. 

"This is honestly the best Christmas I've had in years." he said an hour later as they were cleaning up the wrapping paper and drinking hot toddys. 

"Don't make any rash decisions." Mycroft quipped. 

John ignored it and stoked the fire, sipping at his drink and enjoying the heat from the flames. Sherlock was sat in a chair next to the hearth, looking through his new treasure and speaking to himself. When John felt Mycroft leave he walked over and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock moved into the touch but didn't look up. John figured he was in his mind palace. 

He was wrong. 

Sherlock was very much aware of what was going on and was under the impression that he was talking to John about it. 

'That's very nice.'  
'Does this mean you like me?'  
'Is this the kind of affection you are comfortable with?'  
'Am I allowed to touch you back?'  
'Please don't go'

None of these statements were uttered out loud and Sherlock only realised it when he looked up to find John gone. He looked around and finally stood up to search the house for him. He found him reading in the library. 

"John." he said softly. 

John looked up and smiled warmly at him. 

"You missed lunch. I figured I'd let you think. Your parents went out to visit with a neighbor and your brother headed back to London." John said. "There's a sandwich for you in the kitchen." 

"John." Sherlock repeated. 

John smiled and set the book in his lap. There was this way that he folded his fingers, mostly while sitting and placed on his knee, that made Sherlock wish he could twine his fingers there too. He was doing it then. 

"You've said that. Anything else to add?" John teased. 

"We kissed." Sherlock said, wondering if this was what shock felt like, the slowing of time and seeming emptiness. 

John sat up a bit stiffer and set the book aside. He cleared his throat and Sherlock prepared himself for some sort of blow. 

"We did." John replied. 

Sherlock shifted from foot to foot for a moment before John took pity on him. 

"Why don't you sit down."

Sherlock went to sit in the chair next to him and John cleared his throat and patted his lap. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John chuckled. 

"Come on then. Give me the benefit of the doubt." he said. 

Sherlock scrunched his nose up but sat sideways on John's lap. It was strange at first. He hadn't sat on someone's lap since he was small. Then John wrapped his arms around his middle and pressed his face to his chest and it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

"John." he whispered, running his fingers through John's short cropped hair. 

John snorted and looked up. "I'm starting to wonder if you hit your head." 

Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips to the doctor's mouth. It was an awkward angle but the point got across. When he finally broke the kiss and sat up he felt warm all over and sleepy. 

"So. Shall we give this a go?" John asked. 

Sherlock nodded slightly and pushed a lock of hair from John's brow. 

"Good." John replied. "That's good."


	21. I Need You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been a while. Work has been hellish and I can't center my mind. Here's a short chapter, hope to get back into the swing of things soon. 
> 
> Kate

The rest of the day was spent lazily, reading and sipping mulled cider and eating little bits of food here and there. Dinner was pub style, crackers and cheeses and pickled things doled out in front of the fire. Mummy and father didn't mention that they noticed the looks between Sherlock and John, the looks and the small touches, and everyone was thankful for that. 

When it was time to turn in for the night John pulled Sherlock along to the bedroom and slowly stripped him down to his pants. They climbed under the covers and Sherlock lay his head on John's chest, his heart rate quickening. 

"You're nervous." John whispered. 

"What do we do next. I've never, it's just, I've never-" Sherlock stammered. 

John pushed a hand through his curls and kissed his head gently. "It's okay. Shh, it's okay. We don't have to do anything." 

Sherlock sat up and frowned deeply. "I want to do something! I need to do something! This is impossible! Wanting you to touch me is impossible and frustrating and useless and I hate it!" 

John pulled him back down and held him tight. He ran his hand up and down the taller man's quivering back. 

"I didn't mean I don't want to. You need to breathe. Just breathe for a moment, okay?" John said, kissing Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I need you." Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "I've never needed anyone before." 

John ran a hand through his curls and Sherlock surged up to seal their lips together roughly. John moaned into his mouth and Sherlock gripped his shoulders so hard John thought it might leave bruises. The kiss was sloppy and awkward, often how first kisses are, but as John tilted his head to the right sparks went off behind Sherlock's eyelids. 

He'd thought that kissing John would get this painful urgency out of his system. He was wrong. It held on even tighter, hand around his throat, emotion choking him thoroughly and leaving him a bit dizzy. He pulled away from John's mouth and desperately licked down his chin to his throat. 

John was panting below him and he hissed as Sherlock bit his shoulder, his teeth dragging down as he licked lower. 

"Christ." John moaned, holding onto Sherlock's head and trying not to thrust his hips. 

"John." Sherlock mumbled between wet kisses and soft bites. "John, there's something wrong with me." 

"What? What's wrong?" John asked, willing his mind to pay attention to Sherlock's words, spoken in a frantic tone, and not his own arousal. 

"I can't, I can't breathe. There's something, something-" Sherlock panted. 

John pulled his face back and looked down to see Sherlock wasn't exaggerating. He was drawing in panicked breaths and clutching at his chest. John pushed him onto his back and went to rummage through his bag. He returned to see the absolute fear in Sherlock's eyes and pressed a small white pill to his tongue. 

"Swallow. Just swallow it." He said. "You aren't having a heart attack. You aren't dying. It's a panic attack and I swear it'll go away. Breathe with me." 

Sherlock swallowed audibly and spoke. "It won't stop. John, it won't stop!" 

"It will. You can't have a panic attack if you take a Xanax. It'll get better soon, I promise. You're just overwhelmed and your body freaked out. It's real but it will stop. Breathe." John insisted. 

Sherlock watched John's mouth and matched his breathing. In, one, two, three, four. Out, one, two, three, four. He only made it to two the first time but it became more manageable as it went on and he focused solely on John. John. Perfect John. 

"John." he said. 

"Yeah, it's getting better, isn't it?" John asked. 

Tears began to fall from Sherlock's eyes and he curled in on himself, mortified by his stupid broken body. So bloody stupid! Disgustingly weak! Fucking-

"I'm right here." John whispered, wrapping himself around Sherlock's back. 

Sherlock's breath slowed even more and John ran a hand through his curls. 

"I've ruined everything." Sherlock whispered after a bit. 

"Bullshit." John replied, kissing Sherlock's neck tentatively. 

"We're back to cursing, are we?" Sherlock teased. 

"You're fucking right." John replied confidently. 

Sherlock glanced up and John kissed his lips softly. They lay against each other for a long time, just sharing the space, before falling asleep.


	22. I Want You To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand we finally get to the porn.

The next morning John was awoken by Sherlock climbing back into bed around six. He turned over and opened his eyes carefully then held his arms wide. Sherlock rolled his eyes but climbed into the embrace nonetheless. He buried his face in the crook of John's neck and breathed deeply. 

"It's got to be pheromones." he mumbled. 

John carded strong fingers through his curls and rubbed his back soothingly. What started as gentle pecks to his cheek and hair became heated in no time. Sherlock ran his hands up John's sides and drew them back down to grip his hips. 

"I want to crawl inside you." he murmured. "I know the irrationality of it but the feeling is there anyways." 

"I understand." John replied softly as he kissed Sherlock's neck and nipped at his earlobe. 

Sherlock shuddered. "Do that, do that again." 

John let his tongue drag behind Sherlock's ear before sucking and nipping on his earlobe more. Sherlock made wonderful little mewling noises and rolled his hips. John wrapped his right leg around the taller man's hip and brought their bodies closer together. With the height difference he found his erection trapped against Sherlock's stomach while Sherlock keened and whined at the lack of friction. 

"John." he complained. 

John chuckled and reached a hand down to cup the bulge in his expensive pants. His cock was bigger than John had expected but with his body type it wasn't horribly out of proportion. He stroked up it and ran his thumb across the wet spot in the material. 

Sherlock's hips stuttered and he moaned into John's shoulder. He was forcing his hips forward then and whimpering as John sped up his strokes and finally pushed his hand below the silk and gripped him firmly. 

"It's! It's! It's too much!" Sherlock hissed, thrusting his hips and pushing his prick through John's fist. 

"What do you need?" John asked, his own hips rolling rhythmically. 

"It's!" Sherlock cried, coming all over John's hand and shaking in his arms. 

"Bloody gorgeous!" John sighed, milking every last drop from the taller man. 

After his tremors stopped Sherlock slid down the bed and forcefully removed John's pants, laying his face on his left hip and stroking his cock. John panted and watched as Sherlock rubbed just below the head and made an 'o' with his mouth when a drop of pre-come beaded at the tip. 

"Jesus, you've got huge hands." John mumbled as Sherlock spread the pre-come around the head and down to the shaft. 

"Will you come soon?" Sherlock asked, not taking his eyes off John's prick. 

"Yes." John replied breathily. 

"I want you to." Sherlock said in a dazed sort of tone. 

John chuckled and gripped Sherlock's curls gently. "Yeah, won't be a problem." 

Sherlock reached his other hand up and rolled John's bollocks back and forth. 

"Can I taste it?" Sherlock asked as another drop of pre-come appeared. 

"Can you...? Christ! Of course you can!" John exclaimed. 

Sherlock stuck his tongue out and pressed it against the head then scrunched up his nose. "Interesting." he murmured. 

"You'll want to back off now." John moaned as he started to thrust his hips against his will. 

Sherlock glanced up at him and grinned looking back down just in time to see the first ribbon of come hit John's lower stomach. He continued to stroke as more and more came forth and covered the whole of John's stomach and chest. John had to push his hand away when it became too much. 

Sherlock held his hand above John's stomach for a second before pressing the palm down and rubbing the come in circles. John watched him do it and tried to slow his breathing. 

"The viscosity is normal." Sherlock said. 

"Oh?" John asked, barely hearing the statement. 

"Mmm." Sherlock replied. "The volume is higher than average. Is there always this much?" 

John shook his head and looked down to see Sherlock drawing patterns in the come with his forefinger. He cleared his throat and tried to think. 

"I don't know. Maybe." He said vaguely. 

"I'll have to start a chart." Sherlock said to himself. 

"Of course you will." John said with a soft smile. "Come up here." 

Sherlock crawled up to lay his head on John's shoulder but continued to draw random shapes. 

"That's kind of disgusting." John teased. 

"And sharing saliva isn't?" Sherlock asked, leaning in to run the tip of his tongue across John's bottom lip. 

"Mmm. True. That's nice." John murmured in return. 

"You'll want to sleep a bit now. I'll stay here if you don't mind." Sherlock said. 

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's back and held him tight before drifting off in a post orgasmic haze.


	23. Clarifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John work out some of the kinks in their burgeoning relationship and Sherlock is a bit too eager with his mouth.

An hour later both men were showered and packed and sitting at breakfast with the parents. Sherlock seemed more than a bit nervous so John kept his hand on his knee until they were done serving. Sherlock pushed his eggs around in a small circle for a moment before John took his hand, where it lay on he table and gave it a chaste kiss. 

"Eat your food, Sherlock. We have to get on the road soon and I won't have you in a strop when we get home." he said with a soft smile. 

Sherlock froze for a second, eyes blinking rapidly, before picking up some eggs and brining the fork to his mouth with a soft 'yes, John'. Mr and Mrs Holmes grinned at each other and John pretended not to notice. 

_____

They'd already been on the road for an hour when Sherlock finally broke his self imposed silence. He cleared his throat to make sure John was listening and tried to sound relaxed. 

"I'm your...partner now." he said. 

"Mmm. That you are." John replied, letting his left hand drift to Sherlock's knee. 

"And that doesn't embarrass you." Sherlock added. 

John looked over confused before putting his eyes back on the road. 

"Why would I be embarrassed?" he asked. 

"I'm a man, for one. Your sister was severely bullied for being gay." Sherlock replied. "Bullied by your father." 

John swallowed roughly and his right hand tightened on the wheel. "Well, he's dead now. Can't disappoint him anymore." 

"Which brings me to the next issue. I'm your boss." Sherlock said, looking out the window so as not to give away his nervousness with a look. 

"So we don't kiss while we're at work. I'm not going to deny we're together, but it's not like people didn't think we were fucking before." John replied. 

Sherlock nodded and placed his hand over John's on his knee. 

"What's still bothering you?" John asked after a long silence. 

"As you know, I've never been in a relationship. Friendship was hard enough for me to feel out. I won't be any good at this, I'm afraid." Sherlock said soberly. 

"Yeah, cause I'm the one who runs around looking for easy." John said with a laugh. 

Sherlock frowned at him and John tried again. 

"I'd hope you would trust me to know a bit of what I'm getting myself into." he said. "I do know you, after all." 

"And what do you consider that to be? What you've got yourself into." Sherlock asked, voice tight. 

"We need petrol." John said, pulling into a station and parking. 

Sherlock drew his hand away and sat up straight, body radiating discomfort. 

"Are you asking me what I think will change?" John asked once the engine was off. 

"Perhaps." Sherlock whispered. 

"Not much. For Christ's sake, Sherlock, we've already been in a relationship. Friends aren't that bloody devoted to each other. It's not...it's not normal to be so involved." John said with a laugh. The laugh died in his throat at Sherlock's look of confusion. "Oh. Oh, you didn't know. That's...that's okay." 

Sherlock looked away and John undid his seat belt so he could move closer. He took Sherlock's hand in his and tried to show how fond he was of the man with his words. 

"I think what you want to know is what's expected of you." he said, drawing patterns on the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb. "Nothing has to change. I mean, sure there's going to be more physical intimacy, but even that only has to change as much as you want it to. Do you...do you understand what I'm trying to say?" 

"You'll let me lead." Sherlock huffed. 

John smiled and brought Sherlock's hand to his lips. 

"Yeah. Guess that about sums it up." he whispered, lips moving against soft skin. 

"Well, go on, get the petrol. We don't have all day." Sherlock said in mock irritation. 

"Git." John replied, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hand. 

John let go of his hand and got out to go pay. He left Sherlock fake-sulking in the car and went into the little kiosk to grab a snack. There were a few other patrons in the small building and John felt their eyes on him. He picked out a bag of crisps and was about to pay when Sherlock walked in. 

"Don't buy the spicy ones. I don't like those." he said as he strode over to John in all his dramatic glory. 

"Well, you won't be eating them, will you?" John shot back. 

"No." Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. "But your mouth will taste like them all day. Get the plain." 

John snorted and put back the crisps, picking up the plain kind as if he'd been asked nicely, and got back in line. Sherlock stood a few feet away, watching him carefully, and then followed him back out to the car. 

"You really are a picky bastard." John teased as he opened the gas tank. 

"You knew that from the start." Sherlock replied with a small smile. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Get a bloody room, poofters!" a man to their right shouted. 

Sherlock looked at the way John's body stiffened. He'd seen him like that only a few times before and both situations ended in bloodshed. Sherlock slipped into the car and busied himself on his mobile. 

John took a deep breath and started pumping the petrol. When he was done he turned and hung up the nozzle, a motion that put him face to face with the bloke that had hollered at him. The man grinned something fierce and John sniffed loudly. 

"Bloody-" the man began. 

He didn't manage the rest of what he was going to say as John stepped forward and collapsed his legs, toeing behind his knee and watching the man fall to the ground. He dug his heel into the meaty flesh of the man's upper thigh and narrowed his eyes. 

"Be careful what you say next." he whispered hoarsely. 

"Get off me!" the man shouted. 

John nodded and turned as the man shuffled away from him. He slipped into the car and turned on the engine while watching the thug out the window. He didn't even try to stand as they pulled back out into traffic. 

_____

Ten minutes into driving Sherlock slipped his mobile back into his pocket and opened John's crisps. He placed one slowly on his tongue and let it sit there. He crunched it loudly and took another out. 

"I actually paid for those, you know." John said, still a little unsettled over the man at the petrol station. 

Sherlock fished out another and held it in front of John's lips. John took it and hummed happily. 

"Ta." he murmured. 

Sherlock held another out and John took it as well. 

"You didn't have to say anything to that man." Sherlock said as he got out another. 

"He should have minded his own bloody business." John growled. "And you didn't have to get back in the car just because of what he said." 

"I had to get back into the car because of your reaction. I found myself rather...aroused." Sherlock replied honestly. 

John choked on his chip and gripped the steering wheel tightly. 

"Not the first time your anger has done that to me. You are quite attractive when you get that way. Your shoulders pull back and you make this face." Sherlock added. 

"Christ." John coughed out. 

Sherlock took John's left hand off the wheel and pressed the palm to the front of his own trousers. He wasn't fully hard but well on his way. John sucked in a breath and wrapped his fingers around the shaft as well as he could through two layers of expensive material. 

"It's all come as a bit of a shock." Sherlock said, pressing his hips forwards and collapsing back against the seat with a sigh. "Reacting in such a way. Confused me at first, I'm sad to admit." 

"Yeah? How so?" John asked, cupping Sherlock's bollocks through his trousers and rolling them back and forth. 

"Mmm. Couldn't figure out the source. I have a fairly high sex drive, that's not the issue, it's just never had a focal point." Sherlock said, unbuttoning his trousers and pushing them down to his thighs shamelessly. "So when, when it started to focus on you it was...it didn't make sense." 

John wrapped strong fingers around Sherlock's erection and stroked up and down slowly. Sherlock thrust his hips slightly and closed his eyes. 

"When was the first time? The first time you thought about me like that?" John asked. 

"First time or first time I realised it?" Sherlock asked, voice hitched impossibly low. 

"When you realised it was me." John clarified. 

"Oh." Sherlock moaned. "Promise you won't be mad." 

John quirked an eyebrow. "I promise." 

"I was rude to the woman in the small French boutique because she was flirting with you." Sherlock exclaimed. 

"You what? No. No, she wasn't." John replied. "She was just being nice." 

"Oh, John." Sherlock sighed, already out of breath. "Once again, you see but don't observe. She couldn't keep her eyes off you. And then you got angry at me and pressed me up against the building and..." 

John swallowed hard as he remembered. He ran his thumb across the head of Sherlock's cock and spread the precome around. Sherlock hissed and thrust his hips roughly. 

"You got aroused." John whispered. 

"Mmm." Sherlock replied. "And that night you had a wet dream. I heard you-" 

"Oh, God. Oh, God. Yes. Fuck." John said breathlessly. 

"It was about me, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked. 

"Yeah. Good one too." John said with a laugh. 

Sherlock grunted as John sped up his wrist and tightened his hand. 

"I watched you. Only for a minute. But I saw you, like that, aroused and it all clicked. I finally knew why you'd been showing up in my own mind while...while I touched myself." Sherlock explained. 

"Jesus." John hissed. 

"And then I went downstairs and had what was possibly the second best wank of my life." Sherlock added. 

"Tell me about the best and I'll pull over and finish you off with my mouth." John said quickly, eyes already scanning for a place to park. 

"The morning after we kissed. You were in the shower. The sounds you made." Sherlock murmured. 

John cursed and put the blinker on. Sherlock opened his eyes just as they were pulling off the road and going down a long lane. John pulled them into an alley and quickly turned off the car and undid his seat belt. 

"You are a very bad man, Sherlock Holmes." He said before bending forward and engulfing Sherlock's cock in wet heat. 

Sherlock shouted and came almost instantly, watching John suck down his come as his cock pulsed rapidly. He'd never felt anything like it and suddenly had the odd idea that he'd been missing out. 

He was chanting John's name unconsciously and when John pulled off with a wet sound he couldn't stop. 

"John. John." he whimpered. 

"Fucking gorgeous." John replied, unbuttoning his trousers and pulling himself free of his pants. 

"I want to try." Sherlock said as he gazed down at John's cock. "Let me try." 

John shivered at that and sat back. "Yeah. Yeah." he mumbled. 

Sherlock bent down quickly and took him so far into his mouth that he choked a bit and pulled off. He looked up a bit frightened and sputtered. 

"Jesus. A little at a time." John said. 

Sherlock nodded and tried again, this time only sucking the head between his lips. He hummed and ran his tongue round in circles as John reached down to stroke himself. 

"Oh, that's perfect." John moaned. 

Sherlock grinned and sucked a bit harder, moving down to meet John's hand where it was pulling roughly. He pressed his tongue to the underside of John's cock and John cursed and gripped the seat. 

"Use your teeth. Just a little. Please." John said nervously. 

Sherlock grazed his teeth just below the head and John had to pull him off. 

"I'm coming! Oh, fuck, oh, I'm coming!" John shouted as he held Sherlock just out of reach. 

The taller man managed to get a few fat drops on his tongue and rolled them around in his mouth. He hummed and John let go of his hair and started laughing. 

"Sherlock! You beautiful bastard!" he chuckled. 

Sherlock rubbed the come leaking from John's spent cock up and down the shaft and the older man shivered and moaned. 

"I could have swallowed it." Sherlock said, running a hand through his hair where John had pulled him. 

"Sorry. Sorry, I just assumed. Christ, you're beautiful." John replied, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock licked into his mouth and made a satisfied sound before going into John's bag for a dirty vest to clean the man up with. John sighed and rested his head against the window. 

"I'll drive us the rest of the way home." Sherlock said as he tucked the sticky cloth back in John's bag. 

John nodded and traded seats with him and was asleep as soon as they were back on the road. Sherlock smiled softly at his sleeping form and let the warmth of affection flow over him.


	24. For Just A Little Bit More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some domestic fluff for you guys. We're coming up on the end of this story and I really hope you enjoyed it. I loved seeing how these two came together and I'm glad you were along for the ride. I'll be back after Christmas and I'll see you then! 
> 
> Kate

Sherlock woke John as they rounded on Baker Street and the shorter man yawned and stretched as Sherlock parked at the kerb and turned the car off. 

"How long was I out?" John asked. 

"The whole time it took to get home." Sherlock said with a teasing smile. 

"Mmm." John hummed, stretching again and undoing his seat belt. 

Sherlock got out and grabbed his things before heading in, leaving the keys with John to lock the car and not looking back. 'Git', John thought fondly as he grabbed his bags and followed. 

_____

It took two hours for the calm to break. Sherlock lay on his back like he had no bones, almost slipping off the sofa, and complained loudly. 

"Bored!" he intoned. 

"Haven't you got some experiment or other on? What about that thing you were doing with the pickled pigs feet before we left? Disgusting, by the way." John said, folding his newspaper and starting on the back page. 

"It's a delicacy, John." Sherlock said flatly. "And no, I'm well done with it. What I really need is something to destroy. Perhaps I could start on the tensile strength-" 

"If you're gonna destroy something you'd better not let it pour over into here. Stay in the kitchen." John said, taking a sip of his tea. 

Sherlock grumbled but acquiesced, trying and failing to convince himself he'd stay in the kitchen of his own volition. 

_____

Two hours later John and Sherlock were standing in the rain on the kerb watching firemen leave their flat. 

"Tensile strength, my arse! You didn't have to bloody light the whole thing on fire!" John scolded loudly. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shivered beneath the blanket Mrs Hudson had draped around his shoulders. "We didn't need the whole fire brigade. I had it under control." 

"If by under control you mean your little coughing fit as you scrambled across the floor towards the front door..." John replied bitterly, still not over the fact that he'd been the one to try to put the damn fire out. 

"I don't scramble!" Sherlock whined. "I was going for the fire extinguisher." 

"Yeah, yeah. This'll come out of your part of the rent." John replied, rubbing the heel of his hand across his eyes. 

They still stung a bit from the smoke, possibly toxic as it was and still smoke if it wasn't. 

"I didn't expect things to get so out of hand." Sherlock admitted quietly. 

John sighed and laced their fingers together, resting his head against the taller man's shoulder and frowning. "I know, love. You never do." 

Sherlock stiffened and John glanced up. 

"What?" he asked. 

"You called me love." Sherlock replied. 

"Mmm. Just a pet name, I suppose. I'll stop if you don't like it." John said. 

Sherlock swallowed audibly and shook his head. "No. No, it's...good." 

"Did anyone ever tell you you're a sentimental sap?" John teased as he nuzzled closer, not really minding the drizzle from beneath their umbrella. 

Sherlock huffed. "Not without it resulting in their imminent demise." 

"Yeah, sure, drama queen." John replied. 

Sherlock gasped and it just made John laugh. 

_____

There wasn't really any damage, besides the prevalent stench of smoke, and they were able to get back into the flat after an hour or so. Sherlock set about tidying the kitchen at John's insistence and John got on the phone to order delivery, content to stay out of the kitchen for the time being. 

They settled back into quiet after lunch and Sherlock twisted agitatedly on the sofa while John read up on some new Bond movie that was set to come out later that year. 

"I need a cigarette." Sherlock whined. 

"Nope." John replied without looking up. 

"I NEED a cigarette." Sherlock continued. 

"You're doing so well. Put on a patch or chew some of that gum I bought you." John shrugged. 

"It's disgusting! You bite into it and then stick it against your gums and it STINGS!" Sherlock whined. 

"Fine then, put on a patch." John replied with a sigh. 

"A patch won't help, John! I'm dying! I'm actually dying of boredom! I can feel my brain beginning to atrophy as we speak!" 

John snorted and pulled out his mobile. He texted Greg, he had a favor to call in after setting him up with a blonde from the office, and tucked the mobile back in his pocket. 

"What did you do? Who were you texting? Are you talking to my brother?" Sherlock demanded. 

"Oi! Settle down there, paranoid. I was asking Greg to bring over some cold case files. He said he had a few interesting ones laying around."

"Interesting to him will be pedestrian to me. He can barely make it through his usual caseload." Sherlock shot back. 

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Sherlock." John replied with a sigh. "You said you were bored." 

______

How looking at cold cases turned into dumping a woman from her wheelchair to prove she could walk John would never know. What he did know was that she could not only walk, but run, and quickly. 

He darted around the corner, breath coming quick puffs, and was happy to find the were at a dead end. The woman looked around frantically and John thought absently that she looked like a trapped animal. He wondered if she was the type to chew her own leg off. 

"Celia, there's nowhere to go. Just give up and come peacefully. I really don't want to have to tackle you." John said, gripping the brick wall at his right. 

The second she pulled out the blade Sherlock jumped over the fence and landed directly on top of her. She squealed and thrashed, waving the blade behind her in such a way that Sherlock was caught in the arm. He growled and had her subdued in seconds. 

John thanked God that Sherlock had nicked Greg's handcuffs as he helped him out of his coat to look at the wound. It turned out to be closer to his wrist than elbow and John clenched his jaw at how much blood was spilling from it. 

"Honestly, John. It's nothing. Simply a flesh wound." Sherlock said as John fussed over him and wrapped his own less expensive scarf around Sherlock's wrist. 

"Bloody flying circus." John grumbled. 

Greg came down the alley just then, two men in tow, and caught up with them. 

"Christ, what happened?" he asked as he saw the blood. 

"She had a knife." John replied quickly. 

"This is why I tell you to wait for backup! You're not a bloody vigilante anymore, Sherlock!" Greg growled, running a hand across his brow and frowning deeply. 

"Back up is boring." Sherlock said with a huff. 

"And bleeding isn't." John said almost to himself. 

"Not at all. I'd like to do some experiments at home now, John." Sherlock said as he walked out of the alley and around the corner. 

Greg gave a loud sigh but waved John away after having him promise to come back later the next day for paperwork and John caught up with Sherlock at the kerb. 

_____

When they got back to Baker Street Mrs Hudson informed them that she'd seen the DI at the store the day prior and had invited him to come by for New Year's Eve. She'd apparently also invited the nice young girl Sherlock sometimes got specimens from at the morgue 'because she looked lonely' and Mrs Turner's married ones. 

This threw Sherlock into a tailspin, going from elation over the solved case to one of his blackest moods. He was almost impossible to treat, causing a downright scene as John cleaned his wound, but it took little time and John let him go back to sulking. He buried his face in the sofa and after a few hours of not moving or speaking John decided to go out for takeaway. 

"I'm getting Chinese." he said over his shoulder as he slipped into his coat. "I'll get the dumplings you like." 

Sherlock grumbled something about 'getting enough for everyone' and John ignored it and made his way down the steps. 

The air outside was crisp in a way London winters always seemed to manage, the moisture hanging pregnant in the air as he walked down the street to the place they always ate. He wondered if they'd have anymore snow this year, looking at the sky hopefully. He did always like snow. 

The woman inside the shop grinned when she saw him and handed over the order he'd called in and extra sauce. He thanked her and walked back up the street. 

The trip only took fifteen minutes in total, something Sherlock would have known, so it seemed odd to John as he walked through the door that Sherlock was risking being caught smoking, and in the flat none the less. 

"If I killed you I'd get off." John said as he put the food on the table and went to snatch the half-smoked cigarette from Sherlock's hand. 

"Perhaps because you would have the sympathy of the jury, but not because you would cover it well." Sherlock shot back. 

"What the hell has got into you?" John demanded, standing with his shoulders back. 

Sherlock shrugged and went back to laying with his face pressed between the cushions. John sighed before sliding onto the sofa behind him and wrapping an arm around his waist. He could barely fit but that made it all the more intimate. He kissed the back of Sherlock's neck and breathed against his hair. 

"Is this about people coming over for New Year's?" he asked quietly

"No!" Sherlock hissed. 

"Are you lying about that?" John prodded. 

"Maybe." Sherlock said almost silently. 

"We can cancel if you want." John replied, already feeling bad for Sherlock with his social anxiety. 

"It'll make you happy." Sherlock's said, slipping his fingers into John's and sighing loudly. 

"But I won't have it if you're uncomfortable." John said. 

"It's fine." Sherlock said, drawing out the second world to comical lengths. 

John snorted and got up to open the food. 

"Want to eat at the sofa?" he asked. 

Sherlock nodded so he brought over the boxes and a pair of chopsticks. Sherlock was continuing to be a large puddle of detective so John nudged him with his knee. 

"Budge up." he said. 

Sherlock sat up with a huff and took a box of chow mien and the second pair of chopsticks and dug in less than enthusiastically. 

By the time John had finished and turned the telly on Sherlock was lounging with his head in the John's lap. He drew random patterns on John's thigh and seemed to be deep in thought. 

That was why John was shocked when he pulled up the edge of the older man's shirt and stuck his head beneath, rubbing his cold nose against John's side. John squirmed and Sherlock made a grumpy sound that translated perfectly to 'Stay still. I'm using you.'. John chuckled and let Sherlock take his fill of his warmth. 

When it was time for John to go to sleep he shook Sherlock's shoulder and got a grumble but soon enough Sherlock was sitting up. His hair was sticking in every direction and John smiled at him fondly before kissing him and going to get ready for bed. 

"You'll sleep in my bed now, won't you?" Sherlock asked, coming up behind John while he brushed his teeth and resting his hands on his waist. 

John nodded and spit, rinsing his mouth and sighing happily when Sherlock rested his chin on his shoulder. Sherlock had turned out to be quite tactile, wanted to touch John more the longer the day went on. 

"You coming to bed?" John asked, closing his eyes and taking in the feeling of Sherlock's breath on his neck. 

"Mmm." Sherlock replied. "For a few hours at least. I have some reading to do but that can be put off until after you're asleep." 

"Alright, come on." John said, walking them towards the bed and peeling Sherlock off to unbutton his shirt. 

Sherlock slipped into bed, already in his pajama trousers and a soft t-shirt, and waited patiently for John. When John got in next to him Sherlock immediately wrapped himself around the man and nuzzled his face into his neck. 

They were content to lay like that, tucked under the covers and surrounded by each other's warmth for a very long time. John nodded off eventually and Sherlock stayed for an hour or so longer, taking the time to memorize the sound of John's breathing, dipping low in sleep, and feel his skin for just a little bit more.


	25. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is our last chapter. I like bed writing this story and loved hearing from you just as much. See you on the next one.
> 
> Kate

The New Year's Eve party turned out to be just fine. Sherlock secretly enjoyed himself, and the opportunity to show off his newly begun relationship with John, and even played the group a few songs. Lestrade brought his new girlfriend, a small woman with ginger hair, and Sherlock didn't even manage to scare her off. It was obvious to Sherlock and John, and even possibly Greg himself, that the woman was a poor match for him. She was cold and kept to herself, the opposite of Greg, and Sherlock whispered to John that he gave it three weeks at most.

"She's in it for his badge. She'll find another." Sherlock warned.

"That's not nice to say." John replied, secretly reveling in the gossip.

"It's true. She's horrid. Make her leave." Sherlock whined.

"I'm not going to make her leave." John said with a snort, trying to look disapprovingly at Sherlock and failing when he saw the small pout take over his face.

"I hate this party." he replied with little heat.

Mrs Hudson came over with a tray of spirits and John took an apple brandy for each of them and settled back into his seat.

"You don't." he replied, "you just think it's cute to complain."

"I do not!" Sherlock shouted.

John grinned and everyone looked over at them, Greg coming to say hello so he could get away from his hateful ginger for a while.

"What are you two doing in the new year?" He asked, sipping at his cocktail and eyeing the door.

"She's flirting with one of the married one's." Sherlock replied in a stage whisper.

John elbowed him and gave Greg a shrug. He was right. She was as oblivious as she was heartless, apparently.

Greg slumped down in his seat with a scowl and shook his head. "What have I done? Why do I always pick these women?" he asked.

"Perhaps because you want to be punished for your underlying homosexual tendencies." Sherlock replied flatly.

Greg's eyes flew wide and he shot a look at John. John looked just as shocked.

"I don't, I-" Greg started.

"You think it'll cost you the promotion." Sherlock added.

Greg shook his head once and melted back into the seat. "You're wrong about that, at least. I know it will cost me the promotion. Bennet's a homophobe." he admitted.

John choked on his drink and Greg shrugged slightly. Soon after the three men fell into a comfortable silence and were happy enough to be fed up by Mrs H off and on for the rest of the night. When the witching hour came Sherlock pecked John once on the cheek and retired to the bedroom. 

John saw everyone out, hugging more than he was generally comfortable with, and put out the fire. The place wasn't too much of a mess, besides the empty glasses littering almost all the surfaces, so John picked up the few food plates and joined Sherlock in the bedroom.

"It wasn't that bad, was it?" he asked as he came up behind Sherlock, who was staring out the window at the circling snow, and rested his hands on the man's hips.

"Mmm." Sherlock agreed.

John reached around and began undoing the buttons on Sherlock's shirt while pressing his face to the taller man's shoulder blade. Sherlock rested in his embrace and let his eyes drift closed. When John had finished with his shirt he moved to undo his trousers and then stepped back to divest him completely.

"The songs you played tonight were brilliant." John said as he massaged Sherlock's lower back and breathed warmly against his skin.

"You think everything I do is brilliant." Sherlock shot back softly.

"Not everything, you berk." John said with a grin.

"I think you're brilliant." Sherlock replied.

He found John's wide smile when he turned in his arms. "And handsome." he added.

John felt the flush move up his neck and he cleared his throat and looked away.

"John Watson, I do believe you're blushing." Sherlock said, pitching his voice low, almost to a growl.

John chuckled and started on his own shirt, still refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock pushed the shirt from his shoulders once it was fully unbuttoned and kissed the scar he loved so much. The scar that had brought John to him. He thought quite suddenly how impossible it would be to give John up.

"Take me to bed." John said as he slipped out of his denims.

Sherlock cleared his throat and did just that.

_____

Without even meaning to, Sherlock and John's New Year's Eve parties turned into a thing amongst their close friends. The married one's never came back and neither did the ginger woman, but that was fine. The five, then six of them were enough to fill the room with joy. Greg remained dateless for the next four years while Molly met and then ended up dating Mike Stamford. He had plans on marrying her. It was really quite sweet, in a disgusting sort of way, Sherlock thought.

He was thinking precisely that five years later when John sidled up beside him on the sofa and handed him a drink. He sipped from it blindly before standing suddenly and tapping at the glass with a random utensil. Everyone turned to look at him.

"Although I had intended to do so in private, it has occurred to me that this will save me the time and trouble of letting you all know separately." Sherlock announced.

Everyone looked to John for some sort of explanation but Sherlock ploughed on.

"As you all know, John and I have been together for a little over five years. He's put up with me with the sort of bravery you would expect from a soldier and for that I will always be grateful." Sherlock continued.

John set his drink down and sat up straighter, a concerned look on his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes and flicked his hand towards him dismissively, their own personal cue for 'settle down'.

"I'll endeavor to keep him forgiving me by breaking household objects in the most obnoxious and consistent manner possible." Sherlock added.

The guests laughed at that and Sherlock's eyebrows pulled tight.

"I'm doing it wrong." he almost whispered.

When he looked down at John there were tears in the man's eyes but he shook his head and smiled reassuringly.

"What I mean to say is that I won't change, in the hopes that you won't-" Sherlock said, locking eyes with John, "won't regret saying yes to what I ask next. John Watson, will you marry me?"

John jumped up from his seat on the sofa and took Sherlock in a searing kiss, one that brought cheers from the small crowd. It was all the agreement Sherlock needed and he wrapped his arms around John's waist and held him tight.


End file.
